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ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE  FICTION  JULY  '“44 


At  last! ...  an  absolutely  unconditional  guarantee 

that  SHAVING  CREAM  won’t 

tna£e  jAamtp  a a&aame 

Adv.  experts  call  this  “negative”  advertising,  but  it 

produces  positive  and  pleasant  increases  in  our  sales 


Maybe  this  is  treason,  but  the  fact  is  that  the 
soap-chemists  in  our  laboratory  are  all  members 
of  the  Oh-How-I'Hdte  To-Sbave  Club. 

For  years  they  tried  to  find  the  elusive  ingredi- 
ent which  wouid  make  it  fun  to  swish  off  whisk- 
ers. They  experimented  with  countless  and 
costly  formulas  . . . with  complex  techniques 
of  pre-shave  preparation  . .* . with  almost  every 
shaving  rite  and  ritual  except  incantation. 

But  no  soap!  They  reluctantly  and  finally  de- 
cided, as  most  intelligent  men  do,  that  shaving 
is  at  best  a nuisance  and  a bore. 

As  the  result,  we  have  concentrated  our  tech- 
nical skill  and  resources  on  producing  a pure, 
unadulterated,  quality  shaving  cream.  It  contains 
no  mysterious  or  exclusive  ingredients.  No  revo- 
lutionary discoveries.  No  patents. 

It  is  all  shaving  cream,  and  yards  of  it  can  be 
squeezed  from  the  tube.  We  promise  only  that 
it  is  a sensible  shaving  aid.  Just  a little  of  it,  a frac- 
tion of  an  inch,  makes  great  billows  of  moisture- 
laden lather.  This  helps  to  soften  tough  whiskers, 
helps  make  shaving  as  painless  as  possible. 

If  you  think  that  we  are  not  overstating  our 
case,  when  we  say  that  you  can  get  very 
comfortable  shaves  with  our  product, 
you’re  just  the  man  who  ought  to  meet 
Listerine  Shaving  Cream  face  to  face.  Ask 
for  it  at  any  drug  counter.  The  price  is 
low,  the  tube  lasts  long;  so  it  is  just  as 
smart  to  buy  as  it  is  smartless  to  use. 

TUBE  THAT  LASTS  FOR  MONTHS  Lambert  Pharmacal  Co.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


LISTERINE 

SHAVING  CREAM 


REMEMBER,  THERE  ARE  2 TYPES  OF  LISTERINE  SHAVING  CREAM 

Out  of  this  tube  come  swell  shaves 

for  men  who  prefer  no-brush  cream 


RAark  and  mail  the  International  Correspon- 
dence Schools  coupon  and  you  make  the  first 
move  in  acquiring  Success  Insurance  for 
changing  tomorrow. 

Enroll  with  I.  C.  S.,  bring  determination  to 
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dends at  once.  You  learn  in  your  spare  time. 


At  work  you  prove  and  apply  what  you  learn, 
doing  a better  job  and  winning  advancement. 

Cost  to  your  pocketbook  of  an  I.  C.  S. 
Course  is  surprisingly  low.  To  make  this 
Success  Insurance  effective,  however,  you 
must  invest  ambition  and  perseverance. 
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the  trained  men  to  whom  the  future  belongs. 

For  52  years  it  has  been  demonstrated  that 
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The  coupon  brings  full  information. 


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Q Refrigeration 

Chemistry  Schools 

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O Chemistry,  Analytical 

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□ Plastics 

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Civil,  Architectural 
and  Structural  Engln'fl 
Schools 

□ Architecture 

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Q Civil  Engineering 

□ Contracting  and  Building 

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O Structural  Drafting 

□ Surveying  and  Mapping 


BOX  491 0*P,  SCRANTON  9,  PENN  A. 

please  send  booklet  and  full  particulai'3  about  course  before 

Electrical  Schools  O Tool  Designing 

□ Electrical  Drafting  □ Welding,  Gas  4;  Electric 

□ Electrical  EugjneerinK  Radio  School.  □ 

□ Practical  Electrician  q Electronics  □ 

□ Practical  releDhony  D Radio,  General  □ 

□ 1 ele^aph  Engineering  D Radio  Operatic  □ 

"."road  Cour.« 

_ , 8 ...  * r8.  . ‘ □ Locomotive  Engineer  re 

O Auto  Technician  D Locomotive  Fireman  N 

□ DieaeLEiectrie  □ Railroad  Sec.  Foreman  g 

□ Diesel  Engine*  Steam  Engineering  □ 

□ Gaa  Engines  Schools  LJ 

_M^h.nWa^u.  ggSSSSSW-rtw  a 


D »»ne«W»  H Marine  eSST 


D Airplane  Drafting 
Q Foundry  Work 


□ Steam  Electric 


□ Heat  Treatment  of  Metal.  ° 


□ Mechanical  Drafting 

□ Mechanical  Engineering 

□ Pattemmaking 


Textile  Schools 

□ Cotton  Manufacturing 

□ Rayon  Weaving 


□ Reading  Shop  Blueprints  □ Textile  Designing 


□ Shop  Practice 


□ Woolen  Manufacturing 


which  I have  marked  X: 
Business  and 
Academic  Schools 

Accounting 

Advertising 

Bookkeeping 

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Certified  Pub.  Account'* 

Commercial 

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Good  English 


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dtv State Position Hours 

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AST— 1H 


SCIENCE  FICTION 


«•«.  u.  s.  rat  on. 

CONTENTS 

JULY,  1944  VOL.  XXXIII,  NO.  5 


SERIAL 

RENAISSANCE,  by  Raymond  F.  Jone * . , , . 6 

Three  Parts — Part  One 

SHORT  STORIES 

THOUGHT,  by  Fritz  Leiber,  Jr 84 

HUDDLING  PLACE,  by  Clifford  D.  Simak  ...  133 
UTILITY,  by  David  Anderson 156 

ARTICLES 

SENSE  OF  DIRECTION 99 

HEADSTONES  FOR  ASTRONOMERS, 

by  R.  8.  Richardson,  104 

“TORPEDO  !”  by  ’Willy  Ley 113 

READERS’  DEPARTMENTS 

THE  EDITOR’S  PAGE 5 

IN  TIMES  TO  COME  98 

ANALYTICAL  LABORATORY  98 

BRASS  TACKS 150 

BOOK  REVIEW * 153 


Editor 

JOHN  W.  CAMPBELL,  JR. 


COVER  BY  FRED  HAUCKE 
Illustrations  by  Orban  and  Williams 


The  editorial  contents  hate  not  been  published  before,  are  protected  by 
copyright  and  cannot  be  reprinted  without  publisher's  permission.  All  stories 
in  this  magazine  are  Action.  No  actual  persons  are  designated  by  name  or 
character.  Any  similarity  Is  coincidental. 

Monthly  publication  issued  by  Street  k Smith  Publication*.  Incorporated, 
122  East  42nd  Street,  New  York  17,  N.  Y.  Allen  L.  Grammer,  President; 
Gerald  H.  Smith,  Vice  President  and  'Treasurer;  Henry  W.  Ralston,  Vic* 
President  and  Secretary.  Copyright,  J944,  in  U.  S.  A.  and  Great  Britain 
by  Street  & Smith  Publications,  Inc.  Beentered  as  Second-class  Matter, 
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of  March  3,  1879.  Subscriptions  to  Countries  in  Pan  American  Union, 
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NEXT  ISSUE  ON  SALE  JULY  18,  1944 


“There  Ain’t  No  Sich 
Animile!” 


Man  and  his  efforts  to  produce  devices 
for  his  convenience  keep  demanding 
things  that  don't  exist,  the  combination 
of  properties  that  are  mutually  exclusive, 
and — sooner  or  later  getting  what’s 
wanted. 

Plastics  have  become  immensely  im- 
portant largely  because  of  the  fact  tliat 
that  broad  term  includes  such  an  im- 
mense number  of  possibilities,  such  a 
diversity  of  compounds,  that  almost  any 
chemical  substance  not  intended  as  a food 
or  drug,  and  not  an  element,  can  bcs 
claimed  as  his  own  by  the  plastics  chem- 
ist. As  a matter  of  fact,  they've  even 
claimed — with  some  reason — one  of  the 
elements.  There’s  a plastic  form  of  sul- 
phur that,  if  it  could  be  stabilized,  would 
have  some  handy  uses.  The  metallurg- 
ists won’t  let  them  claim  the  metals,  but 
almost  anything  else  goes. 

Usually,  the  plastics  chemists  stick 
fairly  close  to  five  elements — carbon, 
hydrogen,  oxygen,  nitrogen  and  chlorine. 
That’s  not  a very  harsh  limitation ; those 
five  together  form  immensely  more  com- 
pounds than  all  other  elements  totaled. 
They  form  so  many  compounds  that,  by 
mixing  some  of  the  compounds  for  added 
diversity,  the  plastics  men  have  definitely 
made  things  that  don’t  exist,  and  com- 
bined obviously  mutually  exclusive  prop- 
erties. 

There's  the  cockeyed  sort  of  elasticity 
that  makes  nylon  the  material  for  glider 
towropes.  It’s  slow-rubber.  When  the 
terrific  yank  of  the  fast  moving  towing 
plane  jerks  the  glider  into  motion,  at  the 
take-off,  the  nylon  rope  absorbs  the  shock 
by  stretching  like  a rubber  band.  Once 
the  glider  has  been  picked  up,  and  is  in 
full  motion,  a rubber  band  would  snap 
back — and  slap  the  glider  against  the 
tail  of  the  tow-plane.  Nylon  doesn’t ; it’s 
perfectly  elastic,  and  returns  to  its  orig- 


inal length — but  does  it  gradually. 

But  there  are  the  elastomers  such  as 
Buna  S and  the  like  that  are  perfect 
equivalents  to  the  natural  elastomer,  rub- 
ber. They  snap  back,  of  course.  Inci- 
dentally, it's  a fairly  good  bet  that  the 
synthetic  elastomers  will  shortly  make 
tires  which  will  withstand  high-speed 
driving  as  long  as  or  longer  than  the 
natural  rubber  tires.  Those  who  were 
buying  automobile  tires  about  1920  may 
remember  that  a tire  that  stood  up  for 
five  thousand  miles  was  a darned  good 
shoe.  And  that  was  not  under  high-speed 
driving,  either;  the  cars  weren’t  capable 
of  real  speed.  Since  then,  an  enormous 
list  of  adulterants,  additives,  oxidation  re- 
tardants, compounding  agents,  and  what- 
nots have  been  developed;  a “natural 
rubber”  tire  was  a long,  long  way  from 
being  rubber — and  was  good  for  at  least 
thirty  thousand  miles,  even  with  hard 
driving. 

Synthetic  replacements  are  handicapped 
by  the  fact  that— quite  understandably — 
the  various  additives  that  made  rubber 
wear  don’t  work  in  exactly  the  same  way 
for  the  new  compounds.  Carbon  black, 
very  fine  particles  of  amorphous  carbon, 
greatly  improved  natural  rubber;  it  just 
happens  that  it  isn’t  the  best  additive 
with  the  synthetics.  It  now  appears  that 
copper  compounds— poison  to  rubber — 
are  extremely  helpful  with  the  synthetics. 

It  may  be  that  there  is  no  such  sub- 
stance as  the  perfect  additive  to  synthetic 
rubber.  Maybe  so.  That’s  of  no  long- 
term importance ; they’ll  create  one 
sooner  or  later.  After  all,  a rubber  tree 
wasn't  trying  to  make  the  perfect  auto- 
mobile tire;  the  plastics  chemist  is.  It 
would  be  very  strange  indeed  if  the  tree 
had  accidentally  hit  on  the  one  and  only 
perfect  elastomer  for  tires. 

The  Editor. 


Renaissance 


by  RAYMOND  F.  JONES 


First  of  a three-part  serial  of  a great  plan  and  two  worlds — and  an 
accident  of  Nature  the  Plan  had  not  allowed  for,  an  accident  that  made 
birth  impossible  in  the  new  world,  and  so  distorted  all  science — 


Illustrated  by  Orban 


The  first  globe  had  set,  and  the 
lengthening  shadows  cast  by  the 
second  sun  were  darkening  the 
great  hall  of  the  Karildex. 

The  mighty  machine  seemed 
crouched  down  in  the  half  dark- 
ness, like  some  mammoth  creature 
settling  for  the  night.  The  pur- 

6 


pie  sheen  of  its  thousand  metallic 
facets  reflected  the  glowing  fire- 
bursts  that  lit  the  sky  from  Fire 
Land, 

Only  one  position  of  the  machine 
was  occupied.  It  was  being  used 
by  an  inconspicuous,  middle-aged 
man  who  punched  one  key  after 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


another  in  laborious  indecision. 

Twice,  Ketan  had  offered  to  help 
him,  and  each  time  had  been 
shrugged  away.  Would  the  fool 
never  leave? 

Ketan  glanced  at  the  other  end 
of  the  hall  where  a single  immobile 
figure  was  outlined  against  the  twi- 
light streaming  through  the  broad, 
colored  window. 

Branen  had  been  patient,  but 
Ketan  was  anxious  to  carry  out  the 
purpose  of  their  meeting.  He  sat 
down  at  his  technician’s  position 
and  turned  to  the  filing  of  some  of 
the  day’s  new  matrices. 

These  were  the  square  perfor- 
ated transparencies  by  which  the 
master  integration  of  the  Karildex 
was  formed.  Each  citizen  of  Kron- 
weld,  if  he  so  chose,  had  the  right 
to  keep  on  file  a matrix  which  in- 


tegrated his  characteristics,  desires, 
wants,  wishes,  and  passions  with 
the  thousands  of  others  in  the  city. 

The  complete  integration  of  the 
factors  on  the  thousands  of  matrices 
formed  an  integrated  will — the  will, 
the  law  of  Kronweld.  The  result 
could  be  read  on  the  indicators  and 
charts  as  if  the  entire  city  were  a 
single  individual. 

The  Karildex  was  thus  the  law 
and  the  government,  requiring  only 
administration.  Any  citizen  de- 
siring to  know  the  concurrency  of  a 
contemplated  act  simply  prepared  a 
prospective  integration  on  the  key- 
board and  took  an  indication  of  con- 
gruency with  the  standard  will  of 
Kronweld.  Lawbreaking  was  ob- 
viated before  it  could  be  initiated. 

This  was  what  the  lone  inquirer 
of  the  Karildex  was  doing  as  Ketan 


RENAISSANCE 


7 


chafed  at  his  technician’s  position, 
irritably  filing  the  revised  matrices 
which  had  been  submitted  that  day. 

After  three  mistakes  he  gave  up. 
He  stood  watching  at  the  side  of 
the  towering  machine,  shifting  his 
weight  from  foot  to  foot.  He  ran 
his  lean,  strong  fingers  through  his 
black  locks  and  thought  of  Elta 
whom  he  must  meet  within  a short 
time — and  of  Daran.  His  lean  jaw 
set  hard  as  he  thought  of  the  com- 
ing encounter  with  the  great 
Teacher. 

Abruptly,  the  position  light  at  the 
distant  keyboard  snapped  out.  The 
intruding  presence  of  the  trifling 
inquirer  disappeared  slowly 
through  the  broad  doors  of  the 
building.  Only  the  glow  of  dim 
night  lamps  far  up  against  the  ceil- 
ing and  low  green  lamps  outlining 
the  Karildex  remained  to  illumine 
the  hall.  The  suns  had  set,  leaving 
the  purple,  weaving  glow  from  Fire 
Land  to  dominate  the  sky. 

Ivetan  whipped  into  action.  The 
figure  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall 
approached.  Ketan  hurried  to  meet 
him. 

“What  did  you  find  out,  Bra- 
nen  ?”  he  asked  quickly. 

“Nothing.  I set  keys  all  day  un- 
til the  tips  of  my  fingers  are  worn 
down.  Anything  involving  the 
question  of  the  Temple  'of  Birth 
has  an  index  of  above  a hundred. 
Absolutely  forbidden.  The  index 
is  rising  constantly.  I’ll  bet  those 
new  matrices  you  filed  today  put  it 
up  another  tenth  of  a point.  It’s 
hopeless  to  try  to  oppose  it.” 

"I  know  the  index,”  Ketan 
snapped  impatiently.  “But  it’s  not 

8 


hopeless.  We’re  going  to  carry  it 
through.  Come  here,  and  let  me 
show  you  why  I asked  you  to 
come.” 

He  led  the  way  quickly  past  the 
machine  into  a half  hidden  alcove. 
There  lay  the  master  control  board 
to  which  only  members  of  the  First 
Group  had  access.  Its  multiple  tiers 
of  keys  in  semicircular  banks  rose 
to  the  limit  of  a long  arm  reach. 
At  the  top  of  the  banked  keys  the 
indicator  faces  arced  over  in  a ceil- 
ing formation  that  made  a shell- 
like inclosure  of  the  intricate  key- 
board. Only  after  long  tara  of  ex- 
perience did  a man  become  profi- 
cient in  its  use. 

Branen  uttered  a gasp  as  Ketan 
led  him  forward.  “You’ve  broken 
the  seal  on  the  master  control 
board !” 

“Never  mind.  Come  here  and 
look,”  Ketan  urged.  He  sat  before 
the  ten  thousand  keys  of  the  posi- 
tion and  began  manipulating  an  in- 
tricate formation. 

“I  did  all  that  this  afternoon,” 
Branen  observed  impatiently.  “The 
index — ” 

“The  index  is  a hundred  and 
ninety.  That  indicates  that  investi- 
gation into  the  origin  of  human 
life  is  absolutely  forbidden.  Now 
let’s  try  this  one.” 

Ketan  reset  the  keys.  “There’s 
merely  the  question  of  life  itself. 
The  index  is  the  same.  That  shows 
that  the  integration  of  life  makes 
no  distinction  between  life  and 
human  life.  The  factor  is  identical. 
Now  watch  when  we  change  the 
factor  to  plants  and  animals.” 

Breathlessly,  Branen  watched. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


This  was  a line  of  reasoning  that 
he  had  not  followed.  He  waited 
for  the  index  to  appear  on  the  in- 
dicator. 

“Ninety,”  he  breathed,  “whv, 
that—” 

“Remember,  now,  we  still  have 
the  factor  of  the  Temple  of  Birth 
present  in  the  master  integration. 
Now,  suppose  we  remove  it.” 

“You  can’t.  That’s  an  impos- 
sibility." 

“What  do  you  think  this  master 
control  board  is  for?  Why  do  you 
suppose  the  First  Group  keeps  it 
sealed  ?” 

“But  you  will  destroy  the  in- 
tegration. The  factor  strengths  are 
on  record.  When  it  is  discovered 
that  they  have  been  changed — ” 

‘They’ll  not  change.  I am  set- 
ting up  a separate  memory  circuit 
which  holds  all  factors  controlled 
by  the  concept  of  the  'Temple  of 
Birth  in  abeyance.  Read  your  in- 
dex 1” 

One  by  one,  Branen  read  them 
off  as  Ketan  set  up  the  factors 
minus  the  concept  of  the  Temple 
of  Birth.  “Twenty-five,  sixteen, 
nine!”  he  exclaimed.  “We  could 
investigate.” 

“If  this  integration  represented 
the  actual  status  of  things,”  Ketan 
said.  He  reset  the  disturbed  fac- 
tors and  returned  the  keyboard  to 
normal.  He  replaced  its  intricate 
seal  so  that  his  intrusion  would 
never  be  known.  Then  he  led 
Branen  away,  back  to  the  main  hall. 

“I  asked  you  here  tonight,” 
Ketan  said  slowly,  “to  show  you 
this,  and  to  instruct  you  to  take  my 


place  with  the  Unregistereds — if 
anything  happens  to  me.” 

“Why  should  anything  happen  to 
you?  You  aren’t — ?”  Branen  be- 
gan. 

“I  think  the  time  has  come  to 
test  our  strentgh.  Unless  we  make 
some  positive  forward  move  quickly 
the  Unregistereds  will  die  out  and 
our  purpose  be  lost.” 

“But  you  are  the  only  one  that 
is  impatient,”  Branen  protested. 
“The  other  members  of  the  Un- 
registereds are  content  to  wait  un- 
til the  situation  becomes  more  prom- 
ising.” 

“Becomes  more  promising!  It 
will  never  become  more  promising 
until  we  make  it  so!”  Ketan’s  fist 
smashed  down  against  a position 
panel  on  the  Karildex.  His  eyes 
shifted  their  focus  and  stared  off 
into  the  far  distance  where  dark- 
ness hid  the  other  end  of  the  ma- 
chine. 

“Imagine  it,"  he  murmured, 
“superstition,  false  knowledge, 
mental  degeneracy — becoming  so 
great  that  nine  tenths  of  the  prob- 
lems we  would  investigate  now  are 
forbidden  to  us  because  the  people 
of  Kronweld  believe  they  are  re- 
served for  the  God.  Those  of  us 
who  refuse  to  register  our  Seeking 
with  the  Seekers  Council  must  work 
in  darkness  in  secret  shops  and  hide 
as  if  we  were  declassed. 

*“We  would  be — if  we  were  dis- 
covered.” 

Ketan  whirled  upon  his  com- 
panion impatiently.  “Branen,  this 
is  what  I am  trying  to  say:  The 
time  has  come  for  the  Unregistereds 
to  come  out  of  their  holes,  their 


RENAISSANCE 


9 


hidden  laboratories,  and  assert  their 
rights  to  Seek  into  any  Mystery 
whose  existence  is  obvious — the 
Mystery  of  the  Temple  of  Birth, 
the  Mystery  of  the  great  Edge,  the 
Mystery  of  Fire  Land.  These 
things  should  not  be  closed  to  us. 
We  should  not  have  to  go  and 
make  application  to  a bunch  of 
whiskery  old  men  and  desiccated  old 
women  in  order  to  Seek  into  a 
Mystery.  The  only  right  they  have 
to  restrict  our  Seeking  is  based  upon 
false  integrations  of  the  Karildex. 

“That  means  the  time  has  come 
to  eradicate  those  false  integrations. 
The  time  has  come  to  bare  to  all 
Kronweld  the  work  that  we  have 
been  doing.” 

“We  wouldn’t  dare!”  Branen 
gasped. 

“No — we  wouldn’t  dare,”  Ketan 
said  bitterly.  “We  wouldn’t — mean- 
ing most  of  the  Unregistereds.  But 
I would.  I’m  going  to  take  the 
chance.  I’m  going  to  tell  the  Seek- 
ers Council — at  a public  hearing — 
that  I’ve  found  the  secret  of  the 
creation  of  life.” 

“They’ll  declass  you!” 

“Let  them — if  they  dare,  after 
what  I have  to  show  them.” 

Branen  gazed  in  silent  admira- 
tion upon  the  tall,  rangey  form  of 
his  leader.  He  gazed  into  the  snap- 
ping eyes  and  the  long,  lean  jaw 
that  clenched  firm,  admitting  of  no 
uncertitude,  once  a course  of  action 
had  been  set. 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  “I 
could  never  take  your  place.  You 
are  so  sure.  You  seem  to  know 
without  a doubt  where  you’re  go- 
ing. You  say  that  five  hundred  tar  a 

10 


of  tradition  in  Kronweld  can  be 
overthrown  in  a day  and  state  it  as 
easily  as  if  you  were  going  to  order 
a meal  from  a panel.  I must  be 
honest  with  you.  Not  one  of  the 
Unregistereds  believes  you  can  suc- 
ceed in  your  defiance  of  the  ways 
of  Kronweld — though  you  almost 
convince  me.” 

“And  that  is  why  you  are  the 
only  one  to  whom  I can  offer  my 
place  in  case  something  happens  to 
me.  There  is  danger  enough.  I 
am  not  minimizing  it.  I know  it’s 
tampering  with  the  most  explosive 
force  in  Kronweld  to  attack  the 
Temple  of  Birth.  But  it  must  be 
destroyed.  Every  shred  of  its  in- 
fluence must  be  wiped  out  of  our 
lives.  Unless  it’s  done  our  civiliza- 
tion is  doomed.  I’m  going  to  make 
a start.  If  I fail,  you  will  carry  on 
the  work  of  the  Unregistereds — 
until  the  situation  becomes  more 
promising.  You  agree?” 

“I’ll  do  it,”  Branen  whispered 
solemnly.  “I’ll  do  it.”  Then, 
“What  is  your  plan?”  he  asked. 

“Teacher  Daran  has  asked  me  to 
come  to  see  him  tonight.  I’ll  pro- 
voke him  into  ordering  a reprimand 
for  me.  That  will  provide  an  op- 
portunity for  a full  public  hearing 
which  I shall  demand.” 

“It  won’t  be  hard  to  provoke 
Teacher  Daran.  He’s  been  on  the 
verge  of  ordering  your  reprimand 
almost  from  the  first  time  he  saw 
you.” 

“I  know.  If  I fail,  you  will  find 
all  my  notes  and  materials  in  my 
hidden  laboratory  beneath  the 
house.  You  know  where  they  are. 
Take  them  and  use  them.  Carry  the 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


work  on  from  there.  That  is  all.” 

A momentary  uncertainty  crossed 
Branen’s  face,  and  then  he  turned 
and  was  gone. 

II. 

Ketan  moved  towards  the  lights 
and  door  controls.  He  walked  in 
weariness  after  the  tension  of  com- 
ing to  a decision  was  over.  He  felt 
as  if  he  were  flowing  on  the  breast 
of  a river  of  destiny.  Nothing 
could  turn  him  aside,  now. 

He  was  glad  the  day  was  over. 
He  never  knew  how  long  a day 
might  be,  because  the  machine  was 
at  the  service  of  the  people  of  Kron- 
weld  as  long  as  there  were  any  who 
still  desired  to  use  it.  As  senior 
technician,  it  was  Ketan’s  duty  to 
remain  until  the  last  inquirer  had 
been  satisfied. 

But  there  would  be  no  more  to- 
night. He  flicked  off  the  light  and 
hurried  along  towards  the  dimly 
luminous  panel  of  the  door.  The 
great  machine  with  its  store  of  the 
mind  and  feelings  of  Kronweld  lay 
silent  and  asleep  like  a great  living 
beast. 

Ketan  knew  he  was  already  late 
for  his  appointment  with  Elta.  She 
would  be  angry  and  her  eyes,  like 
the  tips  of  hot,  blue  flames  would 
be  scathing — for  a short  time.  It 
was  hard  for  either  of  them  to  hold 
the  peak  of  anger  long  between 
them  before  they  found  themselves 
laughing  at  their  baseless  argu- 
ments. 

As  he  stepped  out,  the  cool  night 
wind  brushed  his  face  in  relaxing 
freshness.  His  heartbeat  increased 


and  the  day's  weariness  began  to 
pass  with  the  thought  of  Elta. 

It  was  then  that  he  saw  the  old 
woman. 

She  was  alone,  hobbling  along 
the  walk  that  led  from  the  distant 
street  to  the  steps  of  the  hall  of  the 
Karildex.  As  she  shuffled  forward, 
Ketan  stood  entranced  by  the  wave 
of  near  hypnotic  attention  the  with- 
ered figure  demanded. 

She  was  like  the  dried  leaves  that 
scurried  across  the  lawn  in  front 
of  the  building.  Her  hair  was  awry 
and  swaying  like  living  tentacles  in 
the  night.  And  the  black  shawl, 
that  was  characteristic  of  the  old 
when  their  bodies  became  too  ill- 
formed  for  the  revealing  harness  of 
ordinary  wear,  was  like  a shroud 
about  her. 

She  croaked  a single  word  at  him 
and  pointed  a gnarled  finger. 
“Wait!” 

It  was  no  request.  It  was  a 
command. 

“The  building  has  just  been 
closed  for  the  night.  It  is  too  late 
to  make  any  inquiry  tonight.” 
Ketan’s  vocie  carried  little  convic- 
tion. 

“Don’t  tell  me  any  of  that!  I 
know  the  regulations  governing  the 
use  of  the  Karildex.  Admit  me.” 

She  was  within  her  rights.  Ketan 
swore  softly  and  pressed  the  com- 
bination release  that  swung  open 
the  great,  wide  doors  again.  “There 
would  be  much  more  time  tomor- 
row,” he  suggested. 

“Not  for  me  . . . not  for  me.” 
the  old  woman  whispered.  “Here, 
help  me  up  these  steps.” 

He  took  her  hand  and  it  was  like 


RENAISSANCE 


11 


lifting  the  hollow  branch  of  a rotted 
tree.  It  was  so  light.  He  knew 
there  was  prophecy  in  her  words. 
There  was  not  much  time  for  her — 
not  much  time  at  all.  It  drew  out 
a quality  of  pity  in  him,  for  the 
tragedy  of  age  and  death  were  the 
supreme  of  all  tragedies  to  Ketan. 

“What  is  it  you  would  inquire?” 
he  asked,  anxious  to  atone  some- 
what for  his  initial  brusqueness, 
and  to  be  free  as  soon  as  possible. 
“Perhaps  I could  help  you  at  the 
keyboard.” 

“None  of  your  business,”  she 
snapped.  “It’s  my  own  affair.” 

Her  reply  turned  his  sympathy 
cold  and  he  left  her  inside  the  door 
and  returned  disgruntled  to  his 
technician’s  position.  He  did  not 
even  turn  on  his  position  light,  but 
sat  in  the  darkness,  watching  the 
distant  gleam  that  hung  over  the 
thin,  withered  shoulders  of  the  old 
woman  who  hunched  over  the  key- 
board. 

He  wondered  what  she  wanted. 
Why  had  she  come  alone  in  the 
night,  hobbling  to  the  reservoir  of 
desires  and  will  of  all  Kronweld? 
What  possible  difference  could  it 
make  to  her  or  to  Kronweld  what 
choice  the  shriveled  creature  made 
in  any  question  that  was  before 
her? 

Ketan’s  attention  was  dragged 
almost  against  his  will  to  concen- 
trate on  her.  For  a moment,  he 
couldn’t  tell  what  drew  him.  Then 
he  realized:  It  was  the  swift  click 
of  flashing  keys.  Ordinarily,  the 
average  inquirer  punched  slowly, 
one  at  a time,  squinting  up  at  the 

12 


graphs  and  dials  each  time  to  laborP 
ously  interpret  the  results  offered 
him. 

j But  the  old  woman  was  playing 
upon  the  keyboard  with  the  touch 
and  speed  of  a master  technician. 
Only  one  man  had  Ketan  ever  seen 
who  could  perform  like  that  at  the 
keyboards.  He  wondered  if  she 
were  just  madly  punching  keys  or 
if  she  were  really  pursuing  a logical 
inquiry. 

At  that  instant  her  dry,  cracked 
voice  echoed  through  the  dead  and 
silent  hall. 

“Ketan!” 

He  started. 

Then,  more  softly,  it  came  again, 
almost  caressingly.  “Ketan.” 

It  sent  a chill  along  the  back  of 
his  neck — the  strange  tone  of  her 
voice.  How  had  she  known  his 
name?  Had  she  deliberately  sought 
it  from  the  Karildexf 

She  moved  away  from  the  posi- 
tion and  came  towards  him  in  the 
darkness.  He  had  a feeling  that 
she  could  see  him. 

He  turned  on  the  light  at  his 
position.  “Have  you  finished?” 

“I  have  only  begun,”  she  said 
waveringly.  “I  must  have  the 
master  control  board.” 

“The  ma — ! That’s  impossible. 
Only  the  First  Group  and  the  Coun- 
cil of  Seekers  have  entry  to  the 
master  keyboard.  That  is  not  for 
general  use.” 

“You  have  used  it  tonight,”  she 
said.  “You  altered  the  setting  of 
the  master  integration  with  respect 
to  the  Temple  of  Birth  and  the 
Edge.  You  thought  you  returned 
it  to  the  original  factors.  Perhaps 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


no  one  else  would  ever  have  de- 
tected it,  but  I have  detected  it. 
You  would  not  like  the  master 
technician  to  know  that,  would 
you  ?” 

Beads  of  perspiration  stood  out 
upon  Ketan’s  forehead.  Who  was 
this  insidious  old  woman?  His 
sympathy  for  her  began  to  turn  to 
fear  and  hate.  He  could  not  afford 
any  involvement  over  his  use  of  the 
Karildex  now  that  his  decision  with 
regard  to  his  presentation  before 
the  Seekers  Council  had  been  made. 

“What  do  you  want?”  he  said  in 
a hoarse  whisper.  “Who  are  you?” 

“You  have  thought  to  save  Kron- 
weld  from  herself,  the  slow  dying 
senility  she  is  passing  through — like 
me.  That  is  good.  But  the  enemy 
you  see  is  pitiful — a trifling  matter 
— compared  with  the  actual  enemy 
that  besets  Kronweld,  of  which  you 
know  nothing.  Give  me  that  key- 
board!” 

“You  have  no  right  to  it.” 

“I  must  have  it.”  Her  tone  was 
deadly  as  if  she  had  power  to  blast 
him  out  of  existence  if  he  refused 
her  demand. 

“Someone  might  come — " 

“No  one  will  come.  No  one  ever 
comes  this  late  at  night.  Give  me 
that  keyboard." 

The  old  woman  approached  him 
like  the  menace  of  death  itself.  Her 
green,  glowing  eyes  reflected  the 
position  light  with  an  intensity  that 
stabbed  through  him. 

He  turned  like  a machine  and 
went  towards  the  sealed  chamber  of 
the  master  keyboard.  His  fingers 
pressed  the  forbidden  combination 
that  he  was  not  supposed  to  know', 


and  the  gate  swung  open. 

“Ah — that  is  good,”  the  old 
woman  whispered. 

Ketan  cursed  himself  for  an  in- 
effectual fool.  How  had  she  ever 
determined  that  he  had  altered  the 
factor  settings  of  the  master  in- 
tegration ? The  memory  circuits 
were  supposed  to  be  perfect.  He 
knew  he  had  returned  the  integra- 
tion to  normal.  It  was  impossible 
to  detect  the  tampering.  Yet  she 
had  detected  it. 

But  now  the  soft  click  of  keys 
hummed  under  her  fingers.  So 
swiftly  did  her  hands  move  that 
the  distinct  click  of  each  key  was  no 
longer  distinguishable,  but  the 
sounds  blended  into  each  other  in 
a steady  flow  of  monotonous  sound 
that  was  broken  only  when  she 
pressed  the  indicator  lever  and 
called  for  an  index. 

Ketan  stared  fascinated  and  help- 
less. He  saw  after  many  moments 
of  intense  study  that  she  had  reas- 
sembled the  master  integration  in 
almost  unrecognizable  form.  He 
prayed  silently  that  she  had  retained 
all  the  disturbed  factors  in  the  mem- 
ory circuit  so  that  the  Karildex 
might  be  returned  to  normal.  If 
she  failed  to  do  so,  there  would  be 
chaos — not  only  for  Ketan,  but  for 
all  Kromveld. 

Abruptly,  the  chanting  music  of 
the  keys  ceased,  and  the  old  woman 
turned  to  him.  “You  are  the  only 
one,"  she  murmured.  “There  can 
be  no  other.”  And  suddenly  her 
eyes  were  piercing  his.  She  stared 
at  him  with  a quick,  mute  pleading 
as  if  she  would  bare  her  entire  soul 


KENAISSANCB 


IS 


to  him,  and  tears  started  in  her 
eyes. 

“What  do  you — ?”  he  began. 

She  turned  back  quickly.  Her 
eyes  were  staring  into  space.  “Three 
people  must  die,”  she  said,  hardly 
whispering  the  words.  “Three  must 
die.” 

III. 

Her  fingers  set  themselves  to  the 
keys  again  and  moved  faster  than 
sight  could  follow.  Then  she 
pressed  an  indicator  key.  An  index 
appeared  on  the  panel.  Ketan 
stared  at  it.  With  a shock  of  pre- 
monition he  recognized  Leader 
Hoult,  Head  of  the  Seekers  Coun- 
cil. It  was  he,  along  with  the  twenty 
other  Councilors,  before  whom  he 
would  appear  with  the  evidence  of 
the  forbidden  knowledge  he  would 
reveal  to  all  Kronweld. 

“Look  at  the  indications  of  his 
factors,”  the  old  woman  corn- 
commanded. 

Ketan  looked.  There,  revealed, 
were  the  factors  and  concepts  that 
Leader  Hoult  had  submitted  to  be 
integrated  into  the  mass  will  of 
Kronweld.  There  were  the  de- 
sires and  wants  and  impulses  that 
he  had  gained  through  the  experi- 
ences of  his  life  and  made  him  the 
•man  he  was.  Ketan  gave  them  a 
cursory  glance. 

“What  about  them?” 

“Look  closely.  Watch  these 
that  1 intensify.  Tell  me  what  they 
are.” 

Each  factor  as  it  was  picked  from 
the  general  graph  and  intensified 
was  indicated  by  a code  figure  on  a 

14 


dial.  By  long  experience,  Ketan 
believed  there  was  no  factor  code 
that  he  could  not  recognize  and 
identify  on  sight. 

His  mind  went  spinning  over  the 
catalogue  of  infinitely  complex  com- 
binations that  he  knew.  The  num- 
ber before  him  was  totally  un- 
familiar. Its  strangeness  appalled 
him.  A sense  of  cold  foreboding 
stole  along  his  spine. 

“I  can’t  be  expected  to  remember 
them  all,”  he  said. 

“Look  it  up.” 

He  turned  to  the  manual  index 
on  the  wall  and  pressed  the  tabs 
that  corresponded  to  the  index  of 
the  unfamiliar  factors.  The  proper 
defining  sheet  should  have  slid  out. 

There  was  only  a blank. 

“You  see?”  the  old  woman  ex- 
claimed. There  was  a horrible 
gloating  in  her  voice.  “Now  this 
one.” 

Another  unfamiliar  number  ap- 
peared. The  index  for  that,  too, 
was  blank. 

“What  does  it  mean?  How  did 
you  know  about  this  ?”  Ketan  asked 
in  a thin  voice  edged  with  terror. 
“It  can  have  no  meaning.  There 
must  be  an  error  in  the  machine.” 

“An  error  in  the  Karildex?”  The 
woman  laughed  harshly.  “How 
many  times  have  you  boasted  of  its 
accuracy?  No — there  is  no  error. 
Now  watch  this  one.” 

Another,  totally  different  index 
flashed  before  them.  Ketan  recog- 
nized it  as  taken  from  the  matrix 
of  Teacher  Daran,  the  foremost 
mathematician  of  the  House  of 
Wisdom.  Ketan  stared  at  the  row 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


of  factor  indexes.  Out  of  the  hun- 
dreds, there  were  three  that  regis- 
tered blank. 

“You  see — as  hard  as  they  tried 
to  keep  them  out  of  their  matrices, 
they  failed  to  do  so  when  the  proper 
influences  are  subtracted.  Look  at 
their  matrices.” 

She  made  another  rnanipulation 
and  drew  from  a slot  two  transpar- 
ent squares.  The  surfaces  were 
covered  with  hundreds  of  tiny  per- 
forations. The  woman  placed  it 
over  a printed  sheet  and  held  a 
magnifying  glass  over  the  whole. 

“It  is  perfectly  normal  to  all  ap- 
pearances.” 

“But  what  does  it  mean?”  Ketan 
whispered,  more  to  himself  than  to 
the  old  woman. 

She  answered  him.  “It  means 
that  here  are  persons  within  our 
midst  who  have  had  experiences 

that  do  not  conform  to  any  possible 
experience  available  in  Kronweld — - 
or  in  Dark  Land  or  Fire  Land, 
either,  for  they  have  been  cata- 

logued. 

“Can  you  understand  that?  No 
—you  cannot.  I will  tell  you.  It 
means  they  have  come  from  out- 
side !”  she  seemed  to  shriek  the 

final  word. 

“Outside?  What  is  outside?” 

“It  is  beyond  . . . beyond  the 
limits  of  Kronweld.  In  the  world 
where  no  man  of  Kronweld  has 
ever  penetrated.  Can  you  not  con- 
ceive of  that?  Have  you  not 
dreamed  of  a place  of  sand  and 
desert  and  winds  and  a lone,  silent 
rock  that  stands  like  a monument 
in  the  desert?” 

Her  voice  had  dropped  to  a low 


insinuation  that  penetrated  Ketan’s 
mind  like  a thin  knife  blade.  He 
trembled  and  backed  away  from 
her,  white  faced. 

“How  do  you  know  of  that?” 

“You  are  Ketan,”  she  said 
simply.  "I  know  many  things' about 
you.” 

“How  do  you  know  anything 
about  me?  Who  are  you?” 

She  ignored  his  questions — and 
his  hands  that  had  seized  the  thin 
sticks  of  her  shoulders. 

“There  is  one  more  index  you 
must  see,”  she  said.  She  shook  off 
his  gripping  hands  and  pressed  a 
series  of  keys  in  swift  order — but 
the  name  was  left  off.  The  index 
appeared.  He  saw  a dozen  alien, 
unknown  factors  in  that  series,  and 
checked  them.  Blanks,  all. 

“Whose  is  that  one?” 

She  pressed  a final  key.  The 
identification  factor  appeared.  He 
uttered  a single,  sobbing  cry.  ' 
“Elta !” 

The  master  control  board  had 
been  set  to  cancel  out  the  factors  of 
the  Temple  of  Birth,  the  Edge,  the 
date  of  the  beginning  of  Kron- 
weld’s  history,  and  a half  dozen 
other  factors  for  which  Ketan  saw 
no  purpose  in  canceling. 

It  was  in  the  absence  of  these 
factors  that  the  unknown  factors 
on  the  matrices  of  the  three  per- 
sons became  evident.  No  one  would 
have  discovered  them  in  a thousand 
tara  unless  he  knew  exactly  what 
he  was  looking  for. 

The  old  woman  had  known. 

But  Elta! 

Ketan’s  mind  shut  itself  against 


RENAISSANCE 


15 


the  significance  of  her  unknown 
factors.  There  was  nothing  un- 
common about  Elta — except  her 
loveliness,  the  wonder  and  beauty 
of  her,  the  supremacy  of  her  Seek- 
ing. 

The  old  woman  had  said  there 
were  three  who  must  die. 

“Tell  me  what  this  means,”  he 
demanded. 

She  hesitated  while  her  agile  fin- 
gers began  the  resetting  of  the 
master  control  board. 

“It  was  a miracle  finding  you 
here — to  be  able  to  show  you  these. 
It  was  more  than  I dreamed,  to  find 
you  right  here  in  the  hall  of  the 
Karildex. 

She  turned  and  looked  upon  him 
with  her  old,  still-bright  eyes.  “You 
wonder  who  I am  ? I shall  tell  you. 
But  there  are  many  things  you  must 
know  first. 

“I  warn  you  that  danger  and 
death  lies  over  Kronweld.  Already 
its  arm  is  raised  for  the  final  blow 
to  destroy  this  world.  These  three 
are  agents  of  this  destruction. 
There  are  others,  but  these  are  the 
most  important. 

“You  think  me  mad?  Wait  un- 
til I am  finished.  But  these  three 
must  die.  That  will  be  your  task. 
Slay  these  three!” 

His  mind  spun.  Fie  shook  his 
head  as  if  to  clear  it.  He  tried  to 
figure  out  why  he  was  standing 
here  listening  to  this  mad,  old 
woman  when  he  should  be  calling 
for  a Serviceman  to  take  her  away. 
Plotting  death  for  two  of  the  fore- 
most Seekers  in  Kronweld — and 
Elta. 

“You  are  insane — I’ll  hear  no 


more.  You  shall  tell  the  rest  of 
your  story  to  the  First  Group.” 

“Sit  down !” 

It  was  not  a mere  verbal  com- 
mand. It  became  a hypnotic  leash 
that  reached  out  and  gripped  his 
mind,  forced  his  muscles  to  hold 
him  fast  to  the  seat  before  the  key- 
board. 

Against  his  will,  he  remained  and 
listened. 

“For  more  than  a hundred  tcura 
an  organization  has  existed  in  our 
midst  and  none  have  guessed  its 
existence.  The  final  objective  of 
that  organization  is  the  destruction 
of  Kromveld.  They  fear  us  and 
they  will  destroy  us.  They  are  the 
Statists. 

“They  have  withheld  the  death 
blow  only  awaiting  the  proper  time. 
This  organization  has  used  us,  used 
our  Seeking;  it  has  drained  Kron- 
weld of  the  secrets  of  its  Seeking 
and  used  them  against  us.  Only 
one  more  are  they  waiting  for  and 
then  their  knowledge  will  satisfy 
them  and  Kronweld  shall  die.  That 
is  an  understanding  of  our  use  of 
atomic  forces.” 

“You’re  utterly  mad,”  Ketan  said 
in  a low  voice.  “Do  you  expect  me 
to  sit  here  and  believe  such  a fan- 
tastic lie  ?” 

“What  of  the  factors  you  could 
not  identify?” 

“There'll  be  a natural  explanation 
of  them  and  I’ll  find  it  right  here 
in  the  Karildex.  Who  would  com- 
pose such  a group?  What  would 
be  the  purpose  behind  them?” 

“I’ll  tell  you  who  they  are,  be- 
cause you  alone  out  of  all  Kron- 
weld could  understand,  for  you 


16 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


have  seen  their  world.  The  world 
of  colored  sands  and  the  thin  pin- 
nacle of  rock,  standing  like  a monu- 
ment in  the  desert.  They  are — " 

There  was  a sudden  sharp  sound 
from  the  door  of  the  hall.  It  was 
out  of  their  line  of  sight.  The  old 
woman  instantly  extinguished  the 
light  and  slipped  away  from  the 
keyboard. 

In  the  darkness  ICetan  heard  her 
hoarse,  dismayed  exclamation. 
“Hoult!” 

Then  she  was  gone.  Ketan  hur- 
riedly shut  up  the  master  keyboard 
in  the  secret  panels  and  slipped 
away  to  the  other  side  of  the 
Karildex.  There,  he  pressed  the 
button  on  a position  light  which 
was  not  visible  from  the  door.  He 
set  up  a sequence  and  pretended  to 
be  studying  as  footsteps  grew 
nearer  in  the  vast  echoing  hollow- 
ness of  the  hall. 


“Technician !” 

The  voice  rang  out  sharply. 
“Respect  to  you,  sir,”  Ketan 
called.  His  heart  was  thudding 
within  him.  “I  am  here.” 

He  hurried  around  the  end  of  the 
machine  toward  the  leader.  Why 
had  the  man  come,  he  wondered. 
He  sensed  an  impending  disaster  to 
his  plans  before  they  ever  began  to 
be  put  into  operation.  He  didn't 
want  to  meet  this  man  now. 

He  came  face  to  face  with  him 
at  the  end  of  the  monstrous  ma- 
chine. 

“Technician 1” 

“Wisdom,  sir.” 

“I  was  passing  and  saw  the  door 
open,  but  no  lights.  It  seemed 
strange  that  there  would  still  be 
inquiries  this  time  of  night,”  Hoult’s 
black  eyes  looked  down  from  a 
height  that  made  Ketan  look  up  into 
them. 


RENAISSANCS 


17 


"No  one  was  here,  sir,  I was 
working  on  a little  problem  of  my 
own.  I was  just  getting  ready  to 
leave.” 

“That  is  good.  I commend  you 
for  your  studiousness.” 

But  Hoult’s  thoughts  were  not 
upon  his  words.  Ketan  watched  his 
shining,  ebon  eyes  send  a darting 
glance  into  the  black  reaches  of  the 
hall.  Surely  he  couldn’t  know. 

“There  have  been  reports  in  the 
city,”  Hoult  said  as  if  it  were  an 
idle  afterthought,  “of  an  old,  insane 
woman  who  escaped  from  confine- 
ment. She  has  not,  by  any  chance, 
been  near  the  Karildex  today?” 

Ketan  shook  his  head  without 
hesitation.  “No.  I have  seen  no 
very  old  persons  at  all  today.  They 
seldom  come  here.  The  Karildex 
makes  little  difference  to  them. 
They  live  their  lives  without  offense 
or  friction.” 

“Yes  . . . well—”  Hoult  agreed 
idly  with  this  bit  of  philosophy 
while  his  eyes  still  pierced  the  dark 
shadows  -beneath  the  looming  ma- 
chine. “Report  at  once  if  you  see 
any  such.  Wisdom  to  you,  Techni- 
cian.” 

“Wisdom,  Leader.” 

The  man  vanished  slowly  in  the 
shadows  and  Ketan  stood  staring 
after  him.  Why  hadn’t  he  told  the 
Leader  that  the  mad  old  woman  was 
here  now,  hiding  in  the  darkness  of 
the  great  hall  ? Was  it  only  that  she 
had  threatened  to  expose  his  use  of 
the  master  control  board? 

She  would  have  a hard  time  con- 
vincing them  of  that — if  they 
thought  she  was  insane.  She  could 


not  prove  her  accusations. 

But  there  was  something  more 
that  held  him  back.  There  were 
the  unexplainable  factor  indexes, 
the  fact  that  she  knew  of  his  visions 
of  the  red  desert  with  the  pinnacle 
— how  had  she  known  such  a thing 
— and  more:  there  was  something 
that  reached  out  from  that  withered 
husk  in  intangible  and  unspoken 
communication  and  found  a chord 
of  sympathy  in  his  being.  He 
wanted  to  know  who  she  was.  He 
must  know. 

He  turned  back  into  the  shadows 
where  he  had  seen  her  disappear. 
He  cautiously  turned  on  a single 
light  that  dimly  illumined  the  sec- 
tion of  the  hall. 

But  she  was  not  there.  She  must 
have  slipped  around  the  other  end 
of  the  machine.  He  raced  down 
the  length  of  a hundred  positions 
and  came  to  the  end.  Another 
light  failed  to  reveal  her  presence 
anywhere. 

Then  he  saw  her. 

A distant,  dim  shadow  flitted  out 
from  the  looming  hulk  of  the  ma- 
chine at  the  far  end.  She  ran  with 
incredible  speed  towards  the  door 
and  vanished  into  the  night. 

He  raced  after  her,  silently,  not 
daring  to  call  out.  At  the  door  he 
hesitated,  the  night  breeze  splashing 
over  his  face.  But  there  was  no 
sign  of  any  moving  object — only  a 
pair  of  strolling  companions  on  the 
far  side  of  the  road  that  passed  in 
front  of  the  building. 

No  sign  of  any  fleeing  woman — 
an  old  and  withered  husk  running 
through  the  night. 


18 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  fol- 
low her. 

She  would  come  again,  he  knew. 

IV. 

He  closed  the  doors  of  the  great 
building  for  a final  time  that  night 
and  made  his  way  slowly  out  to- 
wards the  road.  It  was  late.  He 
wondered  if  both  Elta  and  Teacher 
Daran  would  have  given  him  up. 
Still,  it  was  not  that  late.  Much  of 
Kronweld’s  life  did  not  sleep  until 
just  before  the  rising  of  the  first 
globe. 

Thoughtlessly,  he  had  taken  his 
day  cloak  and  now  he  flung  it  about 
him.  The  heavy,  leaded  cloth  felt 
good,  cutting  out  the  night  wind. 
Though  the  air  was  warm,  an  un- 
accountable chill  stole  over  him. 

After  a few  hundred  steps  he 
identified  its  source.  It  centered  in 
the  fact  of  the  curious  coincidence 
that  on  this  night  he  would  - have 
met  ail  three  of  those  accused  by 
the  old  woman  of  plotting  against 
Kronweld. 

He  puzzled  over  Leader  Hoult’s 
concern  about  the  woman.  Though 
he  had  tried  to  appear  calm,  it  was 
obvious  that  he  was  highly  agitated 
over  her.  It  was  too  fantastic  to 
believe  there  could  be  any  truth  to 
the  old  woman’s  story. 

Ketan  tried  to  shrug  away  the 
puzzle,  the  mystery  of  it,  and  the 
unreasonableness.  Almost,  it  had 
made  him  forget  the  tremendous 
step  he  was  about  to  take  in  pro- 
claiming his  discovery  of  the  means 
of  creation  of  life  to  Kronweld. 

He  hurried  through  the  night  .as 


if  trying  to  flee  from  the  haunting 
memory  of  the  old  woman’s  face 
looming  up  before  him  like  a dead 
and  shriveled  fruit. 

He  turned  into  the  roadway  that 
led  north.  A stetor  distant  was  the 
blank  curtain  of  the  great  Edge. 

Never,  since  he  first  emerged 
from  the  Temple  of  Birth,  had  he 
looked  upon  that  sheet  of  blackness 
without  experiencing  the  swift  thrill 
of  the  unknown  that  now  swept 
through  him,  leaving  a faint  chill 
in  its  wake.  At  times  the  mere 
contemplation  of  the  thing  left  him 
trembling  and  weak. 

When  he  had  been  younger  he 
had  often  contemplated  the  pos- 
sibility of  building  a rising  ma- 
chine, one  that  would  carry  a man 
high  enough  to  reach  the  top  of  the 
great  Edge.  He  knew  that  the 
energies  of  atomic  engines  were 
more  than  enough  to  make  such  a 
machine  possible. 

But  he  knew  now  that  such  a 
dream  was  a childish  fantasy.  Noth- 
ing could  ever  go  beyond  the  edge 
of  the  Edge.  It  was  nothing,  a vast 
wall  of  negative  existence  that 
stretched  from  positive  to  negative 
infinity.  Top,  sides,  expanse,  depth, 
— all  were  terms  that  had  no  mean-, 
ing  when  applied  to  the  great  Edge. 

An  almost  physical  pain  of  yearn- 
ing and  desire  for  knowledge  passed 
through  him  when  he  thought  of 
the  vast  mystery  here,  a Mystery 
that  no  one  among  the  Seekers  of 
Kronw'eld  would  recognize — except 
the  Unregistereds.  A Mystery, 
therefore,  that  had  to  be  examined 
illegally. 

As  he  walked,  staring  into  the 


RENAISSANCE 


19 


blackness  of  the  Edge,  he  thought 
of  Elta.  What  would  she  say  when 
he  told  her  he  must  go  to  see 
Teacher  Daran?  More:  what  would 
she  say  when  he  told  her  of  his 
decision?  He  knew.  Somehow — 
he  would  have  to  change  her  mind 
about  it — 

There  was  a sudden  tingling  at 
the  roots  of  his  brain.  It  ate  along 
the  nerve  channels  of  his  body  and 
turned  his  quick  steps  into  slow, 
erratic  ploddings. 

Before  him  the  infinite  curtain  of 
blackness  began  to  lose  its  empty 
nothingness.  A reddish  tinge  be- 
gan to  touch  the  black  and  Ketan 
cried  out  involuntarily. 

It  zvas  coming  again. 

Wind  began  to  whip  about  his 
head.  Sharp  daggers  of  sand,  borne 
aloft  on  its  breath,  stabbed  even 
through  the  heavy  day  cloak.  The 
reddish  sky  was  brightening  and 
the  world  became  a howling  mad- 
ness of  driving  sheets  of  sand  and 
wind. 

Kronweld  became  as  if  it  had 
never  existed. 

He  was  in  the  midst  of  a desert, 
a red,  howling  desert  where  life  was 
inconceivable.  From  horizon  to 
horizon  there  was  nothing — only  the 
bleak  vastness  of  sand  and  sky  and 
wind. 

Except — 

Except  for  a single  sliver  of  rock 
that  broke  the  bare  line  between 
sand  and  sky,  curiously  visible  as  if 
the  driving  sheets  of  sand  were, 
transparent. 

The  pinnacle  seemed  closer  this 
time.  Each  time  it  seemed  closer. 
His  feet  slogged  through  the 

*>A 


powdery,  resistant  sand  until  his 
muscles  ached  and  cried  out  for 
relief.  But  something  insistent 
would  not  let  him  rest.  He  had 
to  drive  on  and  on,  whipped  and 
torn  by  the  ceaseless  winds.  Per- 
haps this  time  he  would  reach  the 
pinnacle — 

Then  something  stopped  him  like 
a thudding  blow  within  his  skull. 
He  heard  the  distant  sound  as  of  a 
human  voice,  soaring  all  the  way 
across  the  reaches  of  that  endless 
desert,  distant — as  if  it  came  from 
the  far  away  pinnacle  itself. 

“Hasten,  Lonely  One — your  time 
is  short.  You  must  not  fail  . . . 
you  must  not  fail  . . , come — ” 

The  voice  trailed  off  to  inaudibil- 
ity, and  the  wind  soared  in  a howl- 
ing frenzy  of  madness  as  if  to  drive 
the  sound  waves  back  to  their  very 
origin  and  prevent  the  words  from 
ever  having  been  uttered. 

Abruptly,  all  was  gone. 

Ketan  found  himself  at  a distance 
from  the  last  place  he  remembered 
walking  as  the  vision  came.  The 
same  distance  apparently  that  he 
had  trudged  over  the  drifting  des- 
ert sands. 

He  was  dripping  with  cold  sweat 
that  formed  in  his  pores.  The 
sound  of  that  alien,  haunting  voice 
still  rang  in  his  ears,  as  if  it  were 
the  final  call  of  a dying  world,  and 
he,  somehow,  had  the  strange,  un- 
known power  to  be  its  saviour. 

He  shook  off  the  maddening 
vision,  but  his  being  cried  out  for 
relief  from  it.  Sixteen  times  now 
he  had  experienced  it  since  emerg- 
ing from  the  Temple  of  Birth.  This 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


last  time  was  by  far  the  worst. 
Never  before  had  he  heard  that 
voice,  never  had  the  winds  beat  so 
fearfully. 

Never  had  he  told  anyone  of 
these  experiences. 

But  the  mad  old  woman  who 
had  come  to  the  Karildex  had 
known  of  them.  How  was  it  pos- 
sible ? 

When  would  it  end?  What  did 
it  mean? 

When  he  saw  Elta  sitting  among 
the  trees  of  the  small  parkway  that 
divided  the  road  he  forgot  the  hor- 
rors of  his  vision.  He  stood  and 
watched  her  a moment  before  she 
saw  him. 

Her  slim  brown  body  was  dark 
under  the  violet  sky  glow  that  rip- 
pled fitfully  above  them.  She  was 
clad  only  in  the  universal  fashion 
of  brief,  white  harness  that  served 
necessary  convenience  and  protec- 
tion. Her  small,  golden  head  was 
moving  anxiously  from  side  to  side, 
trying  to  find  him  somewhere  in 
the  darkness. 

Music  was  coming  faintly  from 
the  outlets  of  Artist  Center  hidden 
among  the  trees. 

He  stepped  up  behind  her.  “Wait- 
ing for  someone?’’ 

“Ketan !” 

She  whirled,  startled.  “Have  I 
waited?  A dozen  times  I decided 
to  go  and  then  to  stay  just  another 
while.  What  kept  you  so  long  ? In- 
quirers ?” 

“Yes — they  don’t  often  come  this 
late.  But  I had  some  rather  dis- 
tinguished company  tonight.” 

He  paused.  He  wondered  if  he 
should  go  on.  All  the  way  from 


the  Karildex  he  had  determined  to 
ignore  the  strange  factors  he, had 
seen  in  her  graphs,  to  let  it  make 
no  difference  between  them.  Now, 
as  he  sat  down  beside  her,  there  was 
a barrier  that  the  loveliness  of  her 
presence,  her  tender  possessing 
glance  would  not  put  down. 

“Leader  Hoult  was  in  to  see  me.” 

“Leader  Hoult ! What  did  he 
want  ?” 

“tie  was  looking — he  said — for 
a little  old  lady  whom  he  thought 
he  might  find  inquiring  at  the  Karil- 
dex.” 

Ketan  paused.  Had  Elta’s  face 
blanched  a trifle — her  lips  shown  a 
momentary  unsteadiness  ? He 
couldn’t  tell  for  sure  in  the  accursed 
light  from  the  sky. 

“A  little  old  woman?  Why  was 
he  looking  for  her?  Who  was 
she?”  Elta’s  voice  betrayed  no 
emotion. 

“He  said  she  was  insane  and  had 
escaped  from  confinement.  The 
Servicemen  were  looking  for  her — 
and  Leader  Hoult  wanted  her 
found  with  dead  certainty.” 

“How  do  you  know  ? Did  he  say 
so?” 

“He  merely  mentioned  her.  His 
concern  was  so  obvious  that  I think 
he  dared  not  stay  longer  because 
of  it.” 

“Queer — ” she  laughed,  “the 
things  you  observe,  tending  the 
Karildex.  Tell  me  what  else  hap- 
pened today.”  She  drew  closer  and 
settled  against  his  shoulder.  “It’s 
been  so  long  since  I saw  you.” 

“Since  yesterday,  isn’t  it?”  he 
smiled.  “But  I can’t  stay  here. 
You  remember  I said  Teacher 


RENAISSANCE 


21 


Daran  wanted  to  see  me  soon?” 

She  nodded,  dismayed.  “And 
you  have  to  see  him  tonight?” 
“How  did  you  guess?” 

“I  can  foretell  things  like  that. 
I'll  be  so  glad  when  you  become 
a full  Seeker — and  we  can  make 
our  companionship.” 

He  clutched  her  hand  tightly, 
though  his  veins  were  ice  within 
him. 

“Anyway,  we  can  be  together  a 
whole  day,  the  day  after  tomorrow. 

1 The  Karilde. v will  not  be  open,”  she 
reminded  him. 

“Of  course  it  will!  Why 
shouldn’t  it  be?” 

“It’s  the  opening  of  the  Temple 
of  Birth.  Had  you  forgotten?” 
“Yes — I had  forgotten.”  His 
voice  was  thin.  The  reminder  drove 
his  mind  back  to  the  unyielding  pur- 
pose of  his  existence — to  bare  the 
treachery  and  fraud  of  that  unholy 
place. 

His  mind  completed  the  circle  of 
its  problems  and  came  back  to  Elta. 
She  was  looking  up  at  him  in  the 
silent,  confident  glance  that  bound 
them  tighter  than  chains  and  made 
a great  thankfulness  well  up  within 
him. 

And  he  cursed  himself  for  the 
things  that  he  was  about  to  say. 

“Elta — today  I accidentally  in- 
troduced your  matrix  into  a prob- 
lem I was  working  on.  Some 
strange  results  appeared.  I found 
three  factor  indexes  which  are  not 
recognizable  by  any  description  in 
the  standard  catalogue.  It  has 
bothered  me  a great  deal.  Do  you 
know  what  it  means  or  how  they  got 

22 


into  your  matrix?” 

Ketan  was  not  conscious  of  it  at 
first,  but  gradually  he  became 
aware  that  Elta  had  become  as 
stone  beside  him.  Every  muscle 
had  drawn  to  the  limit  of  its  taut- 
ness.  She  was  trembling  faintly 
as  if  with  cold,  and  her  eyes  were 
not  upon  him,  but  were  staring  far 
beyond  him. 

When  her  voice  spoke  it  was  like 
the  soft  tinkling  of  ice.  “You  didn't 
find  those  factors  by  yourself,  did 
you?  The  little  old  woman  showed 
you.  So  she  has  set  herself  against 
me  at  last — and  you  had  to  know  it, 
too—” 

“Elta,  what  are  you  talking 
about  ? Do  you  know  who  she  is  ?” 
“She  showed  you,  didn’t  she  ?” 
“Yes—” 

Ketan  couldn't  go  on.  There 
was  suddenly  nothing  that  he  could 
say,  nothing  he  wanted  to  say.  He 
felt  as  if  he  had  touched  upon 
something  that  would  haunt  him  ir. 
dreams  through  the  rest  of  his  life, 
something  horrible  and  unclean  that 
was  ensnaring  him  and  Elta  like  a 
trap.  If  he  went  along  and  said 
nothing,  it  would  die  and  pass  out 
of  existence,  but  to  stir  it  up,  at- 
tempt to  fight  it — 

“I  knew  you  would  find  it  some 
day,”  she  w'as  saying  dully.  “I 
knew  she  could  come.  What  did 
she  say  about  me?” 

“She  said  I must  kill  you — to 
save  Ivromveld.” 

Elta  gave  a quick  gasp.  Her 
voice  was  heavy  with  sorrow  when 
she  spoke.  “How  she  must  hate 
us.  What  others  did  she  mention  ?” 
Ketan  ignored  her  question  and 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


burst  out  with  the  torment  that 
was  within  him.  “Elta!  Tell  me 
what  this  is  all  about.  You  talk  as 
if  you  were  in  another  world  and 
I were  nothing  but  a little  actor  on 
a tiny  stage  with  my  own  insig- 
nificant world  while  you  belong  to 
an  alien  fearful  weft' Id  far  beyond 
my  experience.  Tell  me,  Elta!” 
“Tell  me  what  your  answer  to 
Teacher  Daran  is  going  to  be.” 
Her  sudden  change  of  subject 
irritated  him.  “That’s  not  im- 
portant— now.  I want  to  know 
what  all  this  about  your  unknown 
factors  means.” 

“It’s  all  part  of  the  same  prob- 
lem. Tell  me  what  your  answer  is 
going  to  be.” 

“I’ve  got  to  know  what  he  wants, 
first.”  This  new  track  disconcerted 
him,  gave  him  no  time  to  build  up 
to  what  he  must  say  concerning  his 
decision. 

“Tell  me  what  your  answer  is  go- 
ing to  be.  You  know  what  his  ques- 
tion is!” 

“Well — if  he  asks  me  to  enter 
the  House  of  Wisdom  and  be  en- 
trained to  take  his  place,  I’ll  accept 
it,  af  course.  Any  learner  Seeker 
would  be  glad  to  have  such  an 
honor.” 

“You  don’t  mean  that.” 

“Of  course  I do.  Naturally,  I’ll 
ask  for  the  same  privileges  all  other 
Seekers  in  the  House  of  Wisdom 
have — the  right  to  pursue  their  own 
Seeking  while  there.” 

"Even  if  it  is  unregistered?” 
“What  do  you  mean  by  that?” 

“I  know  you,  Ketan.  You’ll  not 
be  content  to  work  in  darkness,  in 
secrecy  in  your  underground  labo- 


ratory while  inquisitive  Servicemen 
snoop  constantly  for  evidence  of 
your  lawbreaking.  You  are  going 
to  refuse  Teacher  Daran,  aren’t 
you?” 

“Yes,”  he  blazed  suddenly,  “and 
I’m  going  to  do  more  than  that. 
I’m  going  to  demand  a public  hear- 
ing before  the  Seekers  Council  and 
tell  them  I know  the  secret  of  the 
creation  of  life.  I’ll  expose  the 
deception  of  the  Temple  of  Birth 
to  all  Kronweld. 

“Day  after  tomorrow  is  the  open- 
ing of  the  Temple,”  he  added 
thoughtfully.  “What  better  time 
could  I have  chosen?” 

She  was  silent  for  so  long  that 
he  turned  and  looked  down  upon 
her.  She  had  slumped  from  her 
stone-rigid  position  and  sat  with 
eyes  averted  downward.  Her  hands 
were  composed  upon  the  warm, 
bronzed  skin  of  her  thighs. 

“Elta—” 

“Ketan,  I want  the  first  promise 
that  I have  ever  asked  of  you. 
When  the  time  comes — and  it  will 
come  soon — when  I can  tell  you 
what  all  this  means,  I promise  that 
I will  tell  you  fully.  I promise,' 
too,  that  I shall  never  do  anything 
— I have  never  done  anything — to 
harm  Kronweld.  The  old  woman 
didn’t  understand.  She  cannot 
know  that  my  pain  has  been  as 
great  as  hers.  I promise  that  I 
shall  clear  up  this  mystery  and  you 
will  know  and  understand  that  I 
have  done  right.  I must  go  away 
for  a little  while.  When  I come 
back,  we  shall  make  our  companion- 
ship. But  you  must  not  attempt .to 
overthrow  the  Temple  of  Birth  by 


RENAISSANCE 


23 


declaring  your  discoveries  to  the 
Seekers  Council.  That  is  the  prom- 
ise I want  of  you.  They’ll  declass 
you.  You’ll  be  unable  ever  to  Seek 
again.  I want  your  promise, 
Ketan.” 

“I  can’t  give  it.  This  is  the  thing 
I’ve  dreamed  of  since  the  first  time 
I was  introduced  to  Seeking.  I’ve 
known  that  this  was  my  work.  How 
can  you  ask  such  a thing  of  me, 
when  you  won’t  even  explain  the 
slightest  fragments  of  the  mystery 
about  yourself  ? Why  must  you  go 
away?  Where  is  there  to  go  that 
I cannot  come  with  you,  or  follow 
you  ?” 

“Then  at  least  promise  you’ll 
postpone  it  until  I can  return  to 
you  and  explain  the  things  you  want 
to  know.” 

He  shook  his  head.  “I  can’t  even 
do  that.  I’ve  told  the  Unregistereds 
what  I plan  to  do.  No  other  time 
will  be  so  appropriate  as  this  once 
in  a tara  opening  of  the  Temple. 
If  I failed  now,  the  Unregistereds 
would  disintegrate  and  be  exactly 
as  they  were  when  I began.  I can- 
not wait!” 

Elta  had  straightened  to  look  into 
his  eyes,  but  now  her  shoulders 
slumped  again.  Her  lips  moved  im- 
pulsively, silently.  At  last  she  said, 
“You’re  a fool — a wonderful, 
idiotic  genius  of  a fool.  And  I 
love  you  so.  I wish  often  that  I 
had  never  met  you.  I wonder  how 
it  will  all  end?” 

“How  would  you  want  it  to 
end  ?” 

“How?”  She  looked  up  at  him 
again  and  then  away  to  the  shim- 
mering curtains  of  light  in  the  sky. 

24 


“Like  we  always  dreamed  it  would 
end.  You  and  I going  away  into 
Dark  Land,  continuing  our  work 
there,  proving  you  are  right  about 
the  creation  of  life  in  absolute  free- 
dom. Oh,  I know  we’re  not  free 
here.  It  irks  and  drags  on  me  as 
much  as  it  does  on  you.  But  we 
can’t  turn  the  whole  of  Kronweld 
upside  down  because  we’ve  discov- 
ered something  there’s  no  hope  of 
making  them  believe.  Let’s  go  to 
Dark  Land — some  of  the  others 
will  go  with  us.  We  can  build  a 
community  and  a life  of  our  own, 
far  away  from  all  this.” 

“You’d  die  out  there,  and  you 
know  it.  We  aren’t  made  to  live 
like  Bors.  We’re  men  and  women. 
And  we’ve  a duty  to  Kronweld,  a 
duty  to  Seeking.” 

“We  could  carry  out  that  duty  in 
Dark  Land—” 

“But  not  until  we’ve  tried  here, 
first. 

“I  must  go,”  he  said  abruptly, 
“Teacher  Daran  will  not  wait  all 
night.  I must  see  him.  Will  you 
go  with  me?” 

V. 

Elta  remained  outside  the  gate 
opening  on  the  short  path  that  led 
to  the  garden.  Ketan  walked 
slowly  along  it,  alone,  clutching  the 
thick  day  cloak  tightly  about  him. 

Teacher  Daran  was  relaxing  be- 
side the  fountain  that  spumed  up 
in  the  midst  of  his  garden. 
Brightly  colored,  phosphorescent 
muds  spouted  into  the  night  air 
through  an  artificial  orifice  and  fell 
back  in  a sluggish  stream  that 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


flowed  through  a carefully  chan- 
neled way  and  then  sagged  into  the 
bosom  of  the  earth  again.  A soft 
curtain  of  steamy  mist  floated  over 
the  garden  towards  the  plain  mar- 
ble house  where  Teacher  Daran 
lived  alone.  He  had  never  taken  a 
companion. 

“ Wisdom.”  Ketan  approached 
through  the  curtain  of  mist. 

Teacher  Daran  rose  on  one  arm. 
He  had  thrown  aside  his  day  cloak 
and  had  been  lying  with  eyes  shut, 
enjoying  music  that  Ketan  knew 
was  coming  from  Artist  Center. 

"Wisdom,”  Teacher  Daran  re- 
sponded. His  eyes  tried  to  pierce 
the  darkness  and  mist.  “Is  it  you, 
Ketan  ? My  eyes  are  weakening 
more  each  day.  Come — you  are 
wearing  your  cloak  when  it  is 
nearly  night  ?” 

The  old  man  chuckled.  “What 
is  it,  Ketan?  You  come  in  the 
midst  of  the  night  with  your  day 
cloak  and  it  is  you  who  are  always 
preaching  that  we  are  weaklings  be- 
cause we  must  wear  the  cloak  at  all. 
You  say  we  should  go  without  pro- 
tection as  our  predecessors  did.” 

Katan  threw  aside  the  heavy  gar- 
ment of  lead  strands. 

“You  asked  me  to  come, 
Teacher,”  he  said. 

“Of  course.  It  is  simple,”  said 
Teacher  Daran.  “Recline.” 

Ketan  dropped  beside  the  old 
man.  The  Teacher’s  great  body 
was  lined  with  the  marks  of  age, 
but  it  was  still  filled  out  with 
smooth  rippled  muscles  of  strength, 
and  the  massive  chest  rose  and  fell 
with  long,  regular  rhythm. 

“The  Council  of  the  House  of 


Wisdom  has  appointed  you  to  fill 
my  place.” 

Ketan  supported  himself  on  one 
elbow  gazing  for  a moment  into 
the  eyes  buried  deep  beneath  the 
overhanging  crags  of  the  man's 
forehead.  He  thought  of  the  un- 
known factors  in  the  matrix,  and 
the  old  woman  who  had  come  to 
the  Karildex. 

“I  would  become  a full  Seeker, 
then  ?” 

Teacher  Daran  smiled  and 
nodded.  “And  you  could  make 
your  companionship  with  Elta  at 
once.  You  don’t  know  how  for- 
tunate you  are.  Perhaps  if  I had 
found  such  a Seeker  companion 
when  I was  young — ” 

“I  would  be  accorded  full  rights 
of  Seeking — the  privilege  of  choos- 
ing my  own  Mysteries?” 

“Subject  only  to  the  approval  or 
rejection  of  the  Council,”  the 
Teacher  nodded. 

“I  do  not  recognize  their  right 
to  pass  upon  the  Mysteries  I 
choose.  Why  should  they  have 
power  to  tell  me  that  I may  not 
choose  the  Mystery  of  the  great 
Edge,  of  Fire  Land — or  even  of  the 
Temple  of  Birth  itself?” 

“So  the  things  they  whisper 
about  you  are  true?” 

“What  is  whispered  about  me?” 
“In  the  Council  of  the  House  of 
Wisdom  have  come  reports  of  an 
organization  called  the  Unregister- 
eds — who  confine  their  Seeking  to 
unregistered  Mysteries.  There  are 
those  in  the  Council  who  say  you 
are  one  of  those.  Many  times  it 
has  been  talked  of — the  desirability 
of  making  a complaint  to  the  First 


RENAISSANCE 


25  . 


Group.  Because  of  the  excellence 
of  your  work  with  the  Karildex  I 
have  been  able  to  persuade  them 
from  taking  such  drastic  action,  and 
even  to  put  through  a vote  for  you 
to  fill  my  place. 

• “I  am  warning  you  severely, 
Ketan,  as  a friend  and  as  your 
Teacher,  that  you  stand  on  very 
dangerous  ground.  How  can  you 
possibly  say  that  you  challenge  the 
right  of  the  Seekers  Council  to 
supervise  Seeking  when  you  are  so 
expert  in  operation  and  knowledge 
of  the  Karildex?  Surely  you  must 
know  that  the  Council’s  commission 
was  a direct  solution  given  out  by 
the  Karildex  three  hundred  tara 
ago.” 

“And  that  is  the  very  reason  I 
challenge  the  restrictions  ! The  in- 
tegration of  the  Karildex  is  based 
upon  false  factors.” 

“How  can  that  be?  The  integra- 
tion is  renewed  twice  every  tara 
and  may  be  supplemented  any  time 
a person  so  desires.” 

“The  integration  reflects  only  the 
knowledge  of  the  individuals  as- 
sembling it.  If  that  knowledge  is 
false,  the  integration  is  likewise  in 
error.” 

“And  just  which  factors  do  you 
claim  to  be  false?”  Teacher  Daran 
spoke  the  words  very  evenly. 

Ketan  pressed  his  lips  tightly. 
“You  know  the  ones.  I haven’t 
been  silent  about  them.” 

“Then  it  is  true — what  they  say 
about  you.  I have  been  a fool  to 
try  to  defend  you  before  the  Coun- 
cil of  the  House  of  Wisdom.  It  is 
true  that  you  deny  the  sacred  aspect 
of  the  Temple  of  Birth  and  advo- 

■jc, 


cate  its  removal  from  the  category 
of  sacred  Mysteries.  You  believe 
it  should  be  opened  to  the  profane 
study  of  all  Seekers  in  Kronweld?” 

“Advocate?  Believe?  I demand 
it!” 

“I  shall  make  a complaint  against 
you  tonight.  This  time  tomorrow 
will  see  you  declassed.” 

Elta  was  waiting  at  the  end  of  the 
path,  her  slender  form  silhouetted 
against  the  sky.  She  stretched  out 
a hand  as  he  approached. 

“What  did  you  tell  him  ?”  she 
asked  anxiously. 

Ketan  told  her  briefly.  “He  is 
issuing  a complaint  at  once.  I must 
hurry  to  the  house  and  get  my 
materials  ready.  I shall  ask  for  a 
hearing,  a public  hearing.” 

“Ketan — no!  Please,  for  my 
sake.  Go  back  and  ask  Teacher 
Daran  to  withdraw  the  complaint. 
He  will  accept  your  apology,  I 
know.  Tell  him  you  will  take  the 
position  offered.” 

“I  shall  ask  for  a hearing,”  Ketan 
said.  “Kronweld  must  know  the 
truth  about  the  creation  of  life, 
and  the  Temple  of  Birth  must  be 
opened  to  Seekers." 

“You  fool,  you  unutterable 
idiot!”  Elta  hurled  at  him.  Her 
flanie-blue  eyes  flashed  a reflection 
from  the  sky. 

But  Ketan  had  turned  to  the 
road.  “I  must  hurry.  I’ll  walk  as 
far  as  you  are  going.  Are  you 
coming  ?” 

They  turned  out  from  the  pri- 
vate path  to  the  main  road  whose 
green,  glassy  surface  stretched  away 
in  a great  circle  which  passed  be- 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCEFICTION 


Jfore  the  magnificent  Temple  of 
Birth  in  the  near  distance. 

They  walked  along  in  silence,  in- 
tent upon  the  sky  reflections  in  the 
road  surface.  The  road  led  out  of 
the  more  luxurious  section  of  the 
city  where  lived  those  entitled  to 
luxury,  the  full  Seekers,  the  mem- 
bers of  the  First  Group,  and  the 
managers  of  production.  Elta 
lived  closer  to  the  center  of  the  city 
in  a group  house  of  Seekers. 

Ketan  lived  on  the  other  side  with 
those  entitled  to  less,  the  learner 
Seekers.  And  here  it  was  that  most 
of  the  population  of  ten  thousand 
lived,  for  there  were  few  full  Seek- 
ers. Nearly  all  Mysteries  had  been 
solved.  Man  had  reached  a point 
near  the  apex  of  his  available 
knowledge.  The  unavailable  knowl- 
edge— the  sacred  Mysteries — con- 
stituted those  things,  that  were  not 
meant  for  man  to  know. 

The  city  wras  laid  out  in  a great 
circle  that  stretched  before  the  pair 
as  they  walked  in  the  darkness.  It 
was  bounded  on  one  side  by  the 
volcanic,  radioactive  Land  of  Fire 
that  lit  the  entire  sky  with  its  blaze 
of  violet  and  crimson  lights.  Be- 
yond it  lay  the  eternal  wastes  of 
Dark  Land  with  its  perpetual  pall 
of  clouds  and  fog  of  smoke  and 
ashes  that  were  carried  by  the  firece 
winds  that  spewed  out  of  Fire 
Land. 

Ketan  and  Elta  came  out  of  the 
overhanging  garden  growth  that 
lined  the  roadway  into  an  open 
space.  There  they  paused  as  Ketan 
looked  up.  He  gazed  at  the  other 
boundary  of  Kronweld — the  Edge. 

No  words  of  description  could 


convey  the  appearance  of  the  thing. 
It  was  simply  nothing.  A vast,  un- 
knowable Turtain  of  nothing,  a ter- 
rifying blackness  that  stretched  be- 
tween the  impassable  horns  of  Fire 
Land  that  met  it  at  either  end  of 
the  encircling  arc  encompassing 
Kronweld.  And  stretched  to  in- 
finity above. 

It  was  the  Edge. 

“Can’t  you  feel  it?”  whispered 
Ketan.  . “Haven’t  you  ever  known 
a longing,  a yearning  rising  up 
within  you,  telling  you  that  there 
is  something  there  that  man  may 
^cnow.  Something  beyond  the  ap- 
parent nothingness  of  the  Edge, 
calling  you  to  break  through,  to 
discover  the  great  Mystery  that  lies 
beyond  it.” 

Elta  shuddered.  “Don’t  ask  me 
to  partake  of  all  your  blasphemy. 
The  realm  of  the  God  lies  beyond 
the  Edge.  No  man  shall  ever  know 
what  lies  beyond  the  Edge.” 

“Pah — ! / know  what  lies  be- 

yond. I have  seen  it.” 

“You !” 

“In  vision  I have  seen  it.  There 
is  a great  land  of  desert.  Red  and 
white  sands  stretching  from  hori- 
zon to  horizon.  There  is  no  Edge 
there.  Only  a circle  of  blue  sky 
that  reaches  the  ground  all  around. 
It  is  hot,  and  fiery  winds  sweep 
clouds  of  sand  like  a million  sharp 
needles  through  the  air.  And  in  the 
midst  of  this  desert  is  a pinnacle. 
Some  day  I shall  reach  it.  There  is 
something  there.  I do  not  know 
what  it  is,  but  I shall  find  out.”  , 
He  stopped  and  stared  down  at 
Elta  as  she  fell  behind  him.  She 
had  ceased  walking  as  if  frozen  in- 


RENAISSANCE 


27 


stantly.  Her  hand  went  to  her 
mouth  as  she  backed  slowly  away 
from  him. 

“How  do  you  know  of  this  thing? 
It  can’t  be  true.  Ketan  . . . Ketan, 
you  must  never  try  to  find  this  pin- 
nacle. You  must  not  find  it.  Say 
you  will  not. 

“I  will  go  with  you,  now,  tonight. 
We  shall  make  our  companionship 
and  we’ll  go  wherever  you  say — 
here  or  in  Dark  Land.  I’ll  never 
leave  your  side  again,  Ketan.  Only 
promise  me  you'll  forget  these  hor- 
rible things. 

“Let  us  go  back  to  Teacher 
Daran.  Go  into  the  House  of  Wis- 
dom. He  will  withdraw  his  com- 
plaint.” 

Ketan  smiled  wryly  and  looked 
far  beyond  her.  “You’d  hate  me 
forever  if  I did.” 

She  trembled  as  if  with  cold. 

They  came  soon  to  a curve  in  the 
road  that  led  around  the  large  re- 
stricted park- way  surrounding  the 
center  of  ail  Kronweld,  the  holiest 
spot  of  ground  tliat  existed — the 
Temple  of  Birth. 

Gleaming  white  even  in  the  black 
and  violet  of  the  night,  the  thick, 
mighty  walls  of  the  Temple  gave 
forth  their  own  inherent  light. 

The  structure  was  a quarter  of 
a sphere  resting  in  the  corner  of  the 
intersection  between  the  Edge  and 
the  surface  of  Kronweld.  As  al- 
ways, faint  strains  of  music  came 
from  far  away,  from  somewhere 
inside  the  Temple  itself.  Through 
the  vast  gardens  a faint  wind  rus- 
tled the  trees  and  drifted  perfume 
from  the  flowers. 

33 


They  walked  slowly  on  the  out- 
skirts, not  daring  to  cross  the  gleam- 
ing purple  line  around  the  Temple, 
beyond  which  no  one  could  trespass 
and  live. 

Ketan  recalled  a few  tara  before ; 
he  had  watched  an  earnest,  foolish 
young  Seeker  dash  across  the  for- 
bidden line  in  fanatic  defiance  of 
the  most  sacred  laws  of  Kronweld 
— and  vanish  in  a puff  of  flame. 

Terrible  atomic  forces  lay  quies- 
cent in  the  thin  line.  They  held 
fast  the  secrets  of  the  Temple  of 
Birth  and  lashed  out  with  unrelent- 
ing death  upon  the  Seekers  who 
trespassed. 

Ketan  paused  opposite  the  center 
of  the  forbidden  arc.  Before  him, 
the  scene  was  like  a vast  stage — the 
great  black  curtain  of  the  Edge 
stretching  to  infinity  and  the  chill, 
mysterious  Temple  lying  at  its  foot. 

Directly  before  him,  in  the  center 
of  the  garden,  stood  a glorious 
golden  statue,  four  times  life  size. 
It  was  of  a dancing  girl,  poised  on 
tiptoe  in  a graceful  pirouette,  laugh- 
ing up  at  the  sky.  Transluscent, 
beaten  gold  leaf  formed  her  sway- 
ing skirt. 

She  was  the  first  woman. 

A thousand  tara  ago,  the  first 
woman  had  found  the  first  man,  im- 
mature and  elemental,  who  had  been 
created  in  this  spot.  She  had  cared 
for  him  until  he  reached  maturity. 
Then  she  had  directed  him  to  build 
the  great  Temple  into  which  she 
had  disappeared  and  he  never  saw 
her  again.  All  creation  henceforth 
had  taken  place  within  the  Temple 
of  Birth. 

Once  each  tara  thereafter  the 
ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


gates  of  the  Temple  opened  and  a 
new  group  of  human  beings 
emerged  and  were  led  out  into  the 
world. 

At  the  same  time,  women  of 
Kromveld  who  volunteered  for  life- 
time service  entered  the  Temple  to 
spend  the  rest  of  their  lives  in  the 
service  of  birth.  They  were  re- 
placements for  those  who  had  died 
during  the  tara. 

Katan  viewed  the  building  som- 
berly. “I’ll  destroy  that  some  day,” 
he  said  softly.  “It’s  like  a horrible 
disease  in  the  flesh  of  Kronweld. 
If  it  were  not  for  that  building  and 
the  secrets  it  keeps  from  us,  we 
would  have  known  the  secrets  of 
life  long  ago.  We  would  know  the 
origin  of  man.  We  would  perhaps 
know  the  solution  to  the  Mystery 
of  the  Edge.” 

“If  it  doesn't  destroy  you  first,” 
said  Elta.  “Let’s  go  away.  It 
makes  me  afraid.” 

They  turned  away  in  time  to  see 
a two-man  car  glide  silently  up  be- 
side them.  Instantly,  Ketan  knew 
its  purpose.  Elta  felt  a chill  of  dull 
fear  close  in  upon  her. 

Servicemen. 

They  climbed  out  and  approached 
Ketan. 

“You  are  learner  Seeker  Ketan?” 
One  of  them  spoke  in  statement, 
rather  than  question. 

He  was  a round  faced,  paunchy 
man  who  spoke  with  the  pride  of 
one  who  had  been  unable  to  achieve 
the  heights  of  Seekership,  but  who 
held  occasional  authority  over  them 
as  an  emissary  of  the  First  Group. 

Ketan  nodded  slowly  in  answer 


to  the  question,  and  remained  si- 
lent. 

“You  are  requested  to  return  to 
your  house  and  appear  before  the 
reprimander  of  the  First  Group  by 
the  second  rising.” 

“Who  makes  a complaint  against 
me  ?” 

The  fat  Serviceman  leered 
smugly.  “You  have  made  no  se- 
cret— ” 

The  taller,  more  dignified  Serv- 
iceman interrupted.  “Respect  to 
you,  learner  Seeker  Ketan — it  is 
Teacher  Daran  who  has  brought 
your  name  before  the  Group.  We 
but  carry  out  our  mission.  May 
we  accompany  you?” 

Ketan  looked  at  the  man’s  ear- 
nest face  intently.  He  knew  the 
man’s  story  as  certainly  as  if  he 
heard  it  from  the  man’s  own  lips. 
He  had  seen  these  Servicemen  be- 
fore— too  fumbling  and  unthinking 
in  their  habits  to  ever  become  Seek- 
ers, yet  worshiping  fervently  at  the 
shrine  of  Seeking.  He  knew  the 
duty  of  his  arrest  must  pain  the 
man. 

But  the  other  was  impatient.  “At 
once,  if  you  please !” 

Ketan  turned,  ignoring  the  Serv- 
iceman’s insolence,  and  murmured 
a word  to  Elta.  Then  he  stepped 
into  the  car,  leaving  her  staring  in 
unbelief. 

VI. 

Elta  stood  motionless  in  the  night 
until  the  car  had  long  disappeared 
around  a turn  in  the  road.  Above 
her  the  reflected  lights  of  Fire  Land 
whipped  in  mad  patterns  of  color 


RENAISSANCE 


29 


that  turned  the  landscape  into  a 
living,  twisting  thing.  It  writhed 
as  if  reflecting  the  torment  of  her 
own  mind. 

Swiftly,  then,  she  turned  and  re- 
traced her  steps.  The  soft  night 
twind  touseled  the  golden  strands 
of  her  hair  as  she  turned  into  the 
path  leading  to  the  garden  of 
Teacher  Daran.  He  was  still  re- 
clining on  the  grass  listening  to  the 
music. 

She  approached  through  the  mist 
floating  over  the  garden. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
him?”  she  demanded  without  pre- 
amble. 

The  old  man  looked  up  with  a 
slow,  knowing  smile.  “Do?  My 
dear,  there’s%nly  one  thing  we  can 
do  with  himF  He  must  die,  of 
course.” 

Elta’s  crying  fear  jerked  and  tore 
at  the  bands  of  her  self-control. 
“Can’t  you  think  of  any  other  solu- 
tion to  human  problems  but  death? 
Is  your  mind  so  far  gone  in  its 
dotage  that  no  clever  solution  is  at 
all  possible  now?” 

“Sorry,  Elta,”  he  said  mali- 
ciously, “but  I’m  afraid  you  can’t 
scold  me  into  saving  your  lover’s 
life.  He  threatens  our  whole  ex- 
istence. In  the  hundred  and  twenty 
years  that  we  have  been  here  he  is 
the  first  man  of  Kronweld  to  be- 
come dangerously  aware  of  us.  He 
will  discover  us  completely  if  he  is 
allowed  to  go  on.” 

“The  first  except  Igon  and  all 
those  who  followed  him.” 

“We  took  care  of  them — just  as 
we  are  going  to  take  care  of  this 
Ketan.” 


At  that  moment  a tall,  magnifi- 
cent figure  approached  them 
through  the  streamers  of  vapor  that 
tumbled  from  the  mud  fountain. 

Teacher  Daran  turned  slightly. 
“Recline,  Leader  Hoult,”  he  in- 
•vited,  his  voice  edged  with  a trace 
of  mockery. 

Hoult  ignored  it.  “Did  you 
know  that  Matra  was  out  of  the 
Temple  tonight?”  he  demanded. 

“No !”  Daran  leaped  to  his  feet. 
“Whom  did  she  see?” 

“Our  fair  companion’s  lover,  for 
one  thing.  She  would  be  sure  to 
go  to  the  Karildex  to  try  to  spot 
us,  but  I went  there  tonight  and 
found  Ketan  pretending  to  be 
working  on  a problem.  It  was  ob- 
vious when  I mentioned  her  that  he 
had  seen  her.  How  much  she  found 
out,  I don’t  know.  I’ve  long  sus- 
pected that  Ketan  knows  the  opera- 
tion of  the  master  keyboard.” 

He  turned  meaningly  to  Elta. 
“How  much  did  he  tell  you?” 

She  hesitated,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  then  .her  fear  ex- 
ploded into  catastrophe.  It  was 
no  use  trying  to  shield  Ketan  from 
what  they  were  certain  of. 

“He  merely  told  me  that  you  had 
come  there,  looking  for  an  old 
woman.”  * 

“That  means  she  found  us,  then,” 
Daran  swore  volubly. 

“Why  do  you  say  that?  You  al- 
ways jump  to  conclusions.” 

“And  usually  correct  ones,  my 
dear.  You  see,  if  he  hadn't  known 
that  you  were  one  of  the  Statists, 
he  wmuld  never  have  told  you 
merely  that.  He  was  simply  testing 
you.  I hope  you  didn’t  react — 


so 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


though  you  probably  did.” 

Elta  let  her  glance  fall  away 
from  the  two.  Her  heart  was  sick 
and  weary  within  her,  sick  of  the 
years  of  deception  and  falsehood. 
She  stared  for  a seeming  eternity 
into  the  bubbling  mud  pool. 

“All  right,”  she  said  at  last.  “He 
does  know  of  us,  then.  He  told  me 
that  Matra  had  found  us.  He 
knows  about  me  but  is  unwilling  to 
believe  it. 

“As  to  the  duties  I was  given  to 
perform  here,  they  are  now  com- 
plete. My  sister  has  the  complete 
information  on  atomic  power.  It  is 
in  a form  that  our  leading  engineers 
can  understand,  this  time.  Nothing 
more  is  needed.  Therefore,  I with- 
draw. I ask  for  your  mercy  upon 
Ketan.  When  he  comes  before  the 
Council,  your  power  is  sufficient  to 
have  him  exiled  to  Dark  Land.  I 
will  go  with  him.  We  shall  live  out 
our  lives  in  Dark  Land  and  you  can 
go  with  your  miserable  struggle  to 
sustain  your  futile  position.  You 
can  carry  that  word  to  my  beloved 
father,”  she  said  with  bitterness. 
“But  let  us  live — even  as  savages — 
and  we  shall  be  grateful  never  to 
see  your  faces  or  hear  of  you 
again.” 

“You  pretend  that  you  would 
give  up  all  you  have  known  in  ex- 
change for  the  Bors  of  Dark  Land 
— and  your  Ketan!”  Daren 
laughed  softly.  “You  expect  us  to 
believe  that!” 

“I  wonde  r — ” Hoult  said 
thoughtfully.  "Perhaps  she  is  right, 
Daran.  Surely  we  could  spare  that 
much  mercy  for  one  who  has 
served  the  Statists  so  faithfully. 


You  say  the  complete  information 
on  atomic  power  has  been  turned 
over  to  your  twin?” 

“I  don’t  trust  her  any  more  than 
this  one,”  Daran  exploded  hotly. 
"She  is  hungry  for  power.  She 
would  slit  the  throats  of  all  of  us 
if  she  thought  it  would  do  her  any 
good.” 

Elta  smashed  the  open  palm  of 
her  hand  against  his  face.  Hoult 
chuckled. 

“Daran  is  simply  too  suspicious 
and  bloodthirsty.  I think  we  can 
grant  you  that  much  mercy — pro- 
viding what  you  say  is  true.  If  we 
have  the  secret  of  atomic  power,  we 
will  seal  up  Kronweld  forever,  and 
let  it  die.  If  you  wish  to  die  with 
it,  that  is  no  concern  of  ours.” 

"Thank  you.” 

She  turned  after  a moment  and 
strode  away  from  them  through 
the  fog. 

Her  heart  was  heavy.  She  knew 
she  had  failed.  They  had  not  be- 
lieved her.  Only  one  more  des- 
perate chance  remained.  She  must 
go  back  to  her  father  as  quickly  as 
possible.  Yet  it  would  not  be  pos- 
sible at  all  without  the  knowledge 
of  Hoult  and  Daran.  She  must 
find  a way  to  keep  it  secret. 

The  two  men  watched  her  slim 
figure  disappear  like  a wraith  in 
the  mist. 

“You’re  a fool,”  Daran  croaked. 
"Do  you  think  for  an  instant  that 
she  will  be  content  to  live  in  Dark 
Land?  If  we  should  seal  it  up, 
they  would  be  at  work  breaking 
through  the  very  instant  we  did. 
Men  like  Ketan  can  be  conquered 
only  by  death.” 


RENAISSANCE! 


31 


“I've  often  noticed  a quality  in 
the  old,”  replied  Hoult  with  intent 
thoughtfulness,  “they  have  a ten- 
dency to  simplify  matters  so,  and 
deal  directly  when  subterfuge  is 
much  the  more  effective.  Do  you 
think  for  a moment  that  I have 
the  power  to  cause  abandonment  of 
our  predetermined  plan  of  utter 
destruction  of  Kronweld — because 
of  an  idle  promise  to  a lovesick 
girl?” 

For  the  entire  distance  to  his 
home,  Ivetan  saw  only  the  smooth 
cast  surface  upon  which  they  rode. 
His  head  was  down,  the  tight 
planes  of  his  forehead  pursed  with 
somewhat  nervous  determination. 

His  hands  grasped  the  lapels  of 
the  day  cloak  which  he  had  thrown 
needlessly  about  his  shoulders 
again  and  drew  it  tight,  outlining 
the  slump  of  his  shoulders  which 
the  Servicemen  interpreted  as  de- 
jection. 

They  knew  Ketan’s  house  and 
drew  up  before  it  without  asking 
for  direction.  Slightly  ahead  of 
them,  lie  entered  the  house  first  and 
light  flooded  on.  Ketan  threw  aside 
his  cloak  and  motioned  the  Service- 
men to  lounges.  It  was  their  right 
to  his  hospitality  for  the  night  while 
they  kept  a formal  watch  over  him. 

They  sat  down.  The  paunchy 
one  began  toying  with  the  refresh- 
ment levers  on  the  panel  at  his 
side. 

“Help  yourself,”  Ketan  invited. 

A tray  swung  out  beneath  the  re- 
freshment panel,  bearing  the  food 
and  drink  the  Serviceman  selected. 
He  offered  some  to  his  companion 


who  shook  his  head  irritably. 

Ketan  went  immediately  to  a 
desk,  selected  a sheet  and  began 
writing  after  first  adjusting  the 
stylus  to  permanent.  Its  delicately 
heated  tip  began  burning  words 
into  the-  treated  paper. 

While  the  Serviceman  gorged, 
Ketan  w'rote  furiously,  and  when 
he  was  through,  Ketan  rose.  His 
eyes  were  filled  with  suppressed 
emotion  and  his  cheeks  were 
flushed. 

“Take  this  to  the  council  at  once,” 
he  ordered. 

The  two  glanced  at  the  sheet. 
The  taller  looked  across  at  him. 
“You  don’t  dare — the  risk  is  too 
great  for  so  little.” 

The  paunchy  one  set  down  a 
glass  and  eyed  him.  “It  isn't  many 
learner  Seekers  who  tempt  the 
Seekers  Council  this  way.  If  you 
take  what’s  corning  to  you,  they  will 
simply  order  you  to  cease  your  in- 
quiry into  the  lines  that  Teacher 
Daran  has  complained  of.  Why 
tempt  them  to  throw  you  down  to 
ordinary  Servicenranship — like  us  ?” 
He  leered  with  curiosity. 

“A  full  hearing  before  the  Seek- 
ers Council  is  my  privilege,”  said 
Ketan.  “I  am  asking  a public  hear- 
ing. Carry  the  message.” 

The  Serviceman  took  a final 
swallow-  from  his  glass  and  stepped 
out  to  the  car.  As  leader  of  the 
two,  it  was  his  duty  to  carry  Ketan’s 
appeal  to  the  First  Group,  but  he 
was  reluctant  to  give  up  a night  of 
ease  in  Ketan’s  house. 

“You  were  not  always  a Service- 
man?" Ketan  settled  on  the  lounge 


32 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


and  turned  to  his  remaining  attend- 
ant. 

The  man  smiled  a wry,  wistful 
smile.  “No — respect  to  you — may 
I speak  as  a co-operator?” 

“As  an  equal,”  Ketan  assented. 

“I  am  Varano.  I proposed  the 
cultivation  of  the  creatures  of  Dark 
Land  for  food — that  we  might 
find  an  excellent  and  useful  source 
of  food  there.  Igon  and  others 
were  forced  to  use  them  when  they' 
became  lost  there.  I was  declassed 
for  my  barbarism.” 

“So  you  were  the  one.  I re- 
member the  instance.”  Ketan 
looked  at  the  Serviceman  quizzi- 
cally with  a half  smile  on  his  face. 
Then  he  indicated  the  buttons  on 
the  refreshment  panel. 

“Push  the  blue  one  down  twice 
and  pull  up  on  the  red  one.” 

“Pull  up—:” 

The  Serviceman,  Varano,  obeyed 
wonderingly.  Then  his  eyes 
popped  and  his  mouth  hung  open. 
The  tray  swung  slowly  out  bearing 
a steaming  slab  of  browned  meat. 

He  leaped  up  and  glanced  fur- 
tively around  the  room  as  if  hidden 
eyes  might  be  watching  him.  “Hide 
it!”  he  cried.  “You  could  be  de- 
classed for  life  on  the  evidence  of 
this.” 

“You  are  the  only  one  in  the  vi- 
cinity with  authority  to  bring  that 
about.  Taste  it.”  He  motioned 
towards  the  thick  steak. 

Slowly,  the  Serviceman  sat 
down  again.  “What  do  you  want 
of  me?” 

“Nothing.  Just  thought  you’d 
like  a little  more  substantial  nour- 


ishment than  your  fat  little  friend 
had.” 

The  Serviceman  deliberately  cut 
a piece  from  the  steak  and  ate  it. 
“You’re  a queer  one,  Ketan.  I 
wish  we’d  met — before.  But  all 

that  is  vain.  There  is  no  hope  for 
either  of  us.  You  will  be  de- 
classed as  surely  as  the  two  globes 
rise  tomorrow'.  Kronweld  must 
protect  itself  from  your  kind — it  is 
too  small  to  hold  you.” 

“What  about  yourself?” 

Varano  shrugged.  “It’s  all  set- 
tled and  I’ve  forgotten  the  ambi- 
tions I once  had.  It’s  just  as  well. 
The  First  Group  knows  best.  I’m 
in  the  place  I belong.” 

Ketan  shook  his  head.  “I  know 
your  kind.  You’ve  let  them  beat 
you  down  until  there’s  nothing  left 
of  the  things  you  once  dreamed  and 
planned.  You’re  nothing  but  an 
empty  shell,  doing  the  bidding  of 
a bunch  of  worn  out  old  men  and 
women.” 

Varano  flushed  and  rose  slowly. 
"You  forget  my  purpose  in  remain- 
ing here.  It  is  not  your  province  to 
insult.” 

“Sorry.”  Ketan  rose.  “You 
don’t  need  to  get  so  stiff  about  it.” 
He  hesitated,  then : “Come  with 
me  and  I’ll  show  you  what  I am 
talking  about.” 

Varano  hesitated,  then  followed 
as  Ketan  led  him  out  of  the  room 
and  down  a short  corridor  past  his 
laboratories.  At  the  end,  they  came 
to  steps  leading  downward.  It 
seemed  to  the  Serviceman  that 
there  were  hundreds  of  endless 
steps  burying  them  ever  deeper  in 


RENAISSANCE 


33 


the  ground  as  they  plodded  down 
the  lighted  way. 

They  made  a turn  and  came  to 
the  bottom  at  last.  The  room  was 
white  walled  and  perfectly  blank  on 
its  four  narrow  sides.  Ketan  whis- 
tled a low  tune  and  a panel  slid  aside 
revealing  an  immense  cavern  be- 
yond. 

From  somewhere  deep  within  it 
came  a low  growl  and  a steady  rum- 
bling that  pricked  the  short  hairs 
on  the  back  of  Varano’s  neck.  An 
unfamiliar  rank  odor  stabbed  at  his 
nostrils. 

“The  source  of  your  steak.  Come 
along.’’ 

They  entered  and  the  door  closed 
behind  them.  The  room  was  large, 
equipped  with  Seeker’s  tools  such 
as  the  Serviceman  had  never 
dreamed  of,  but  that  was  not  strange 
to  him.  It  had  been  a long  time 
since  he  had  worked  in  a labora- 
tory. 

34 


They  passed  on  and  came  to  a 
darkened  corridor  in  which  the 
fetid  smell  became  stronger  and  al- 
most sickening. 

“They  can’t  stand  much  light,” 
Ketan  explained. 

As  he  spoke,  they  stopped  before 
a barred  partition  and  he  switched 
on  a low  light. 

The  Serviceman  could  not  con- 
ceal the  impulse  of  horror  that 
leaped  within  him.  “Bors !” 

A great,  shaggy  beast  rumbled 
towards  them,  head  lowered,  red 
eyes  glowing  malignantly  out  of  the 
darkness. 

It  stood  half  again  as  high  as  a 
man  and  its  head  looked  like  a huge 
black  boulder  surmounted  by  twin 
curved  horns  that  hooked  out 
menacingly.  It  snorted  and  pawed 
the  floor,  creating  a dull  thunder 
that  echoed  in  the  cavern. 

The  Serviceman  backed  fear- 
fully. “But — how  did  you  ever  get 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


it  here?”  he  cried  incredibly.  “I 
tried,  myself,  long  ago.  The 
ban — ” 

“The  ban  is  easily  evaded,”  said 
Ketan,  “if  one  is  resourceful.  But 
that  isn’t  what  I brought  you  here 
to  see.  Look.” 

The  Serviceman  turned  again. 
Now,  a second  beast,  slightly 
smaller  than  the  first  was  approach- 
ing with  fearful  inquisitiveness. 
“Two  of  them — ” 

“Yes — two — the  two  I brought 
with  me  from  Dark  Land  in  de- 
fiance of  the  ban  our  stupid  leaders 
insist  on  against  the  bringing  of 
any  life  but  human  into  Kronweld. 
I followed  the  Bors  for  many  days 
alone  until  I found  their  lair  in 
the  darkest  parts  of  Dark  Land. 
There  I found  small  Bors,  not  these 
great  beasts — do  you  understand 
what  that  means?” 

Ketan  had  grasped  the  harness 
strap  of  the  Serviceman  in  a fierce 
grip  and  now  his  eyes  were  boring 
into  those  of  Varano.  The  Service- 
man returned  the  gaze  as  if  hypno- 
tized. 

“Do  you  understand  what  that 
means — Bors  an  eighth  the  size  of 
these  animals  ? I brought  three 
of  them  back  with  me.  One  we 
have  eaten.  Now  look  into  the  cage 
and  tell  me  what  you  see !” 

The  very  fierceness  of  Ketan's 
emotion  turned  the  eyes  of  the 
Serviceman  to  the  cage  and  then  he 
cried  out:  “Back  in  the  corner — a 
third — it  is  a baby  Bors  1” 

“Now  do  you  believe  I have 
something  to  tell  the  First  Group — 
to  tell  all  Kronweld.  I have  found 
the  secret  of  life  itself.” 


VII. 

The  Serviceman  had  fallen 
asleep  on  the  lounge  and  was  emit- 
ting rumbling  snores.  But  there 
was  too  much  to  be  done  for  Ketan 
to  sleep  much. 

He  first  drew  out  his  own  car 
and  loaded  it  with  the  plates  and 
exhibits  to  present  before  the 
Seekers  Council.  It  was  nearly 
time  for  the  rising  of  the  first  globe 
when  he  had  the  last  of  the  dozens 
of  plants  stowed  away,  and  behind 
the  car  was  a massive,  sound- 
proofed trailer  in  which  reposed 
the  family  of  Bors. 

This  work  completed,  he  sat 
down  with  heavy  weariness  before 
his  communicating  plate  and  or- 
dered a connection.  Shortly,  Elta’s 
face  appeared  on  the  plate.  Her 
eyes  were  dry  now,  but  red  from 
past  tears. 

“What  has  happened?”  she  asked. 

“Nothing — yet.  I just  called  to 
tell  you  my  application  for  a public 
hearing  has  been  entered  and  I’ll 
soon  be  on  my  way.  Wish  me  suc- 
cess, won’t  you?” 

She  did  not  answer,  but  merely 
stared  at  him  with  her  wide,  lam- 
bent eyes.  Fie  returned  her  gaze 
softly. 

Always  he  experienced  that  in- 
explicable feeling  when  he  looked 
upon  her.  Companions  were  sup- 
posed to  be  chosen  according  to 
affinity  between  the  works  they 
were  doing  as  Seekers  and  servants 
of  Kronweld. 

But  Ketan  knew  he  had  not  ap- 
proached Elta  simply  because  she 
was  the  foremost  Seeker  in  her  sec- 


RENAISSANCE 


AST— 2H 


38 


tion  of  Physical  Reactions.  He 
often  wondered  if  she  felt  the  same 
about  their  coming  companionship 
as  he  did — and  wondered  if  there 
were  something  wrong  with  him 
for  feeling  as  he  did.  It  was  some- 
thing' about  which  no  one  ever 
spoke. 

At  last  she  said,  “So  you  did  it ! 
Oh,  why  will  you  rush  on  so  blindly 
before  you — know?” 

“I  know  enough  to  be  sure  that 
this  is  the  only  way  progress  can 
be  made  against  superstition  and 
blindness.  You’ve  got  to  smash 
through  it  and  batter  it  down — or 
else  live  in  its  smothering  encircle- 
ment.” 

“Not  when  you  have  nothing 
more  to  offer  than  you  have.” 

“I  have  all  I need.  I have  my 
plants  and  I have  the  Bors.  What 
more  could  they  want?” 

She  gazed  at  him  long  and 
fondly.  “There  is  one  thing  more 
that  we  might  offer  them — you  and 
I—” 

He  shook  his  head.  “I  don’t 
dare,  yet  . . . not  you,  Elta — ” 

“Of  course  you  don’t,  because 
you  don’t  know.”  She  shuddered 
slightly  as  if  with  cold  and  her 
tousled,  fire-gold  hair  fell  across 
her  face. 

“There  can  be  only  one  result.” 
Her  voice  became  a monotone  of 
resignation.  “You  will  be  declassed 
— never  again  will  you  be  able  to 
Seek.  Never  will  you  be  able  to  find 
the  answer  to  any  of  the  Mysteries 
that  exist.” 

She  looked  up  now  in  firm  deci- 
sion. “This  will  be  the  end  of  the 
life  we’ve  known,  Ketan.  Don’t 

3« 


wait  for  the  hearing  before  the 
Council — flee  for  your  life.  Even 
though  you  may  be  merely  de- 
classed now,  there  are  those  who 
will  not  let  you  live.  You  are  too 
dangerous  to  those  whose  personal 
ambitions  demand  the  destruction 
of  Kronweld.  Hoult  will  not  let 
you  live ! Go  into  Dark  Land,  now 
— tonight.  Wait  for  me  there.  I 
will  come  to  you  soon.  You  must 
do  this,  Ketan,  believe  me !” 

Her  pleading,  agonized  image 
grew  larger  in  the  plate,  until  he 
seemed  to  be  able  to  reach  out  and 
touch  her.  The  intensity  of  her 
expression  held  him  entranced. 

She  cut  off. 

He  realized  absently  that  the 
plate  had  turned  its  normal  blank 
gray.  He  tried  to  call  back,  but 
she  refused  to  answer. 

Slowly,  he  turned  away  from  the 
instrument.  What  had  she  meant 
by  saying  that  he  must  flee  for  his 
life?  Had  she  told  Hoult  and 
Teacher  Daran  that  he  knew  who 
they  were?  Did  they  know  that 
the  withered  old  woman  had  given 
him  her  command  to  slay  all  three  ? 

He  shook  off  the  thought.  Elta 
would  not  have  betrayed  him. 

The  second  globe  had  almost 
risen  when  he  woke.  He  brushed  a 
hand  across  his  face  and  struggled 
up.  He  hadn’t  intended  to  go  to 
sleep,  just  take  a moment’s  rest. 

The  entrance  signal  was  jangling 
furiously.  He  whistled  a note  and 
the  portly  Serviceman  rushed  in. 

“The  Seekers  Council  are  not  ac- 
customed to  waiting,”  he  snapped. 

“Maybe  some  of  us  aren’t  as 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


anxious  to  obtain  declassing  as  you 
were.” 

They  turned  at  the  sound  of  the 
voice.  The  second  Serviceman, 
Varano,  stood  in  the  doorway, 
sharp-eyed  from  his  night’s  sleep. 
His  leader  snapped  a look  that 
Ketan  knew  would  be  followed  later 
by  reprimand. 

Ketan  hurried  out  of  the  room  to 
get  into  his  harness  and  finish  his 
preparations.  He  returned  shortly 
and  anounced  his  readiness. 

The  shining  white  cube  of  the 
House  of  Control  lay  in  a straight 
line  through  the  city  from  the  Tem- 
ple of  Birth.  It  was  the  edifice 
second  in  importance  in  Kronweld. 

Ketan  led  his  car  along  a road 
that  disappeared  directly  beneath 
the  building.  Down  a steep, 
brightly  lit  corridor  they  rolled 
until  they  came  to  the  huge  freight 
elevator  that  would  carry  his  ex- 
hibits up  to  the  hall  of  justice. 

The  high,  shining  corridors  of 
the  building  were  frigid  in  their 
marble  hardness.  Their  footsteps 
rattled  against  the  walls  until  their 
marching  sounded  like  an  ap- 
proaching mob. 

Ketan  had  expected  to  see  a 
large  number  of  people  filing  into 
the  hall,  but  the  corridors  were 
empty  except  for  the  three  of  them. 
The  paunchy  Serviceman  seemed  to 
read  his  thoughts. 

“I  neglected  to  tell  you  previ- 
ously that  the  Council  rejected  your 
application  for  a public  hearing — 
they  said  it  was  not  important 
enough  to  warrant  a public  proc- 
lamation. The  hearing  will  be  be- 
fore the  Council  only.” 


A cold  premonition  gripped 
Ketan.  He  knew  that  the  Service- 
man’s neglect  was  deliberate,  and  he 
sensed  the  refusal  of  the  Council  to 
grant  a public  hearing  was  a de- 
liberate plot  against  the  spreading 
of  his  revelations  among  the  popu- 
lace. 

Half  the  effect  would  be  nulli- 
fied if  he  spoke  only  before  the 
Council.  He  had  counted  strongly 
on  making  an  appeal  to  some  of 
the  Seekers  who  might  be  in  the 
audience.  He  knew  they  would  be 
easier  to  convert  than  the  Council 
itself.  Now,  the  stiff  and  barren- 
minded  Council  would  form  his 
only  audience. 

He  was  on  time.  The  clerk  read 
his  name  as  the  two  Servicemen  es- 
corted him  into  the  sumptuous  hall. 

Beneath  the  high  ceiling  of 
glistening  gold  and  marble  was  the 
Council  table.  From  it,  twenty 
pairs  of  eyes  turned  upon  him — 
only  one  member  was  absent. 

Some  of  those  eyes  focused  on 
him  in  wrath  like  a burning  glass. 
Some  curious,  some  quizzical,  some 
squinting  in  disbelief,  all  amazed  at 
what  they  saw. 

Not  once  in  ten  tara  did  a learner 
Seeker  demand  an  appearance  be- 
fore the  Council.  Not  one  in  a 
hundred  who  did  escaped  declass- 
ing; 

Ketan’s  black  hair  that  spilled  in 
a half  touseled  way  above  the  edge 
of  his  forehead  bespoke  youthful 
incompetence,  but  the  deep-set  eyes 
beneath  stabbed  out  uncomfortably 
at  them,  as  if  guiding  a mind-prob- 
ing ray  that  bit  deeply  into  the  inner 
thoughts  of  each  of  them.  Several 


RENAISSANCE 


sr 


glanced  away  in  discomfiture. 

They  were  ringed  in  solemn  dig- 
nity about  the  outer  edge  of  a semi- 
circular table.  To  the  hollow  space 
in  the  center  Ketan  strode  slowly 
and  with  deliberation.  The  Serv- 
icemen left  him  standing  alone  in 
the  center  of  the  great  hall  and  de- 
parted. Varano  gave  his  hand  a 
brief  grip  before  he  disappeared. 

Opposite  Ketan  sat  Leader 
Hoult.  A solemn  black  cape  hung 
from  his  shoulders  in  useless  sem- 
blance of  a day  cloak.  His  black 
eyes  glared  upon  Ketan — and  held 
his  inner  thoughts  in  utter  secrecy. 

Ketan  returned  his  gaze,  wonder- 
ing how  much  the  man  knew,  won- 
dering what  kind  of  a double  role 
the  man  was  playing. 

“We  have  previously  heard  the 
complaint  of  Teacher  Daran,”  he 
said.  “You  have  asked  for  a hearing 
before  the  Seekers  Council.  You 
may  make  any  statement  you  see 
fit.  You  have  the  privilege  of  the 
Council.  Proceed.” 

A pounding  began  to  rise  in  his 
chest,  but  it  quieted  when  he 
started  to  speak. 

“I  have  not  come  before  you,  re- 
spected Seekers,  so  much  to  an- 
swer the  complaint  against  me  as  to 
ask  a question  of  you  and  to  present 
the  results  I have  obtained  in  my 
Seeking — Seeking  which  I frankly 
admit  to  be  in  the  realm  of  for- 
bidden Mysteries.” 

A sudden  shifting  rippled  through 
the  Council.  Shoulders  hunched 
forward  as  if  they  were  preparing 
to  leap  on  him  en  masse. 

“You  admit  such?”  the  Leader 
asked.  His  eyebrows  raised  like  a 

38 


shaggy  brush.  Ketan  thought  he 
looked  suddenly  disconcerted. 

“1  state  it.  The  question  I ask 
is  why  is  the  Mystery  I have  chosen 
forbidden?  What  is  there  that  we 
are  afraid  of?” 

“Just  what  is  this  Mystery  you 
have  chosen?”  an  ingratiating 
voice  came  from  one  end  of  the 
table.  He  turned  and  recognized 
Anot,  the  newest  member  of  the 
Council,  who  had  performed  much 
applauded  Seeking  into  the  struc- 
ture of  the  ground  beneath  Kron- 
weld. 

“It  is  the  Mystery  of  us — you 
and  I.  Why  we  are  here  . . . how 
we  came  here — ” 

For  a wild  moment  he  felt  a ter- 
rible surge  of  panic  and  uncer- 
tainty. What  was  he  doing  here? 
How  could  he  ever  tell  these  stone- 
faced cadavers  how  he  felt  at  night 
looking  up  at  the  terrifying  blank- 
ness of  the  Edge — the  surging  mys- 
tery of  the  Temple  of  Birth — the 
threatening  unknown  of  Dark  Land 
— They  had  never  known  the  feel- 
ings that  were  locked  within  him. 

“It  is  the  Mystery  of  existence, 
the  Mystery  of  life  that  I would 
Seek  out — " 

“You  are  not  very  clear,”  said 
Leader  Hoult. 

“Look,  let  me  show  you.” 

Ketan’s  exhibits  were  being 
rolled  int-o  the  hall  from  the  rear. 
He  retreated,  then  pushed  forward 
a rolling  table  on  which  some  of  his 
plants  had  been  placed.  He  set  up 
his  screen  and  his  projector  before 
them. 

“Why  is  it  that  man  found  no  life 
ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


in  Kronweld  when  he  came?”  he 
challenged  rhetorically.  “Why  was 
Kronweld  a barren  world,  for  so 
many  long  tara  until  Igon  pierced 
Fire  Land  and  brought  plants — 
trees  and  flowers — from  Dark 
Land?  Why  do  we  yet  have  to 
bring  all  plants  from  Dark  Land 
into  Kronweld?” 

“Such  questions  are  adequately 
answered  by  our  religion.  Seekers 
have  no  concern  with  such.” 

Ivetan  turned  to  face  the  quiet 
voiced  speaker  who  addressed  him. 
It  was  bland-faced  Nabah,  repre- 
sentative of  religion  on  the  Council. 
For  many  tara  he  had  struggled  for 
a place  on  the  Council  to  control 
and  preserve  the  sacred  Mysteries 
from  the  prying  of  too  energetic 
Seekers.  Ketan  knew  that  here 
was  a man  who  would  stab  him  in 
the  back  at  every  turn. 

“The  God  placed  man  in  Kron- 
weld, and  plants  in  Dark  Land. 
That  is  the  proper  province  of  each. 
Question  not  the  disposition  of  the 
God,”  Nabah  intoned  from  his 
creed. 

“Then  man  defies  the  God  each 
time  he  brings  a plant  into  Kron- 
weld ?” 

The  room  was  still  and  all  eyes 
were  intent  upon  Ketan  and  Nabah. 

“Man  is  the  master  of  all,”  the 
latter  said.  “It  is  his  privilege  to  do 
as  he  wills  with  the  materials  of 
Dark  Land.” 

“Then  it  is  his  privilege  to  open 
all  Mysteries  connected  with  the 
plants  of  Dark  Land.  That  is  a 
thing  which  I have  sought — and 
found.  Look.” 

He  flashed  a drawing  on  the 
RENAISSANCE 


screen  before  them.  It  was  a skele- 
ton outline  of  a flower. 

“This  blossom  may  represent  the 
flower  part  of  all  plants,  for  all  of 
them  contain  these  essential  parts 
in  one  form  or  another.  We  have 
in  the  center  an  elevated  stalk  with 
a bulbous  form  at  its  base  contain- 
ing small  ovules. 

“Surrounding  this  stalk  are  nu- 
merous small  filaments  bearing  mi- 
nute grains  of  powder.  When 
these  grains  light  upon  the  central 
stalk  of  this  same  flower — or  more 
generally,  of  the  flower  of  a neigh- 
boring plant — the  grains  pierce  the 
length  of  the  stalk  and  subsequently 
unite  with  the  small  ovules  in  the 
base.” 

“That  has  been  known  for  many 
tara,”  said  Leader  Hoult.  “Have 
you  nothing  new  at  all  to  offer?” 

“I  have  this : Can  any  of  you  tell 
me  the  purpose  of  this  strange 
mechanism  which  is  universal 
among  plants  in  one  form  or  an- 
other ?” 

Nabah  smiled  across  to  Anot. 
Members  of  the  Council  ill  con- 
cealed their  affected  boredom. 
Leader  Hoult  said,  “You  are  young, 
Ketan,  and  you  have  as  yet  learned 
little  of  the  traditions  of  Seeking 
which  have  been  firmly  established 
among  the  great  in  Wisdom  in 
Kronweld.  There  wTas  a time  once 
when  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  in- 
quire of  every  new  discovery  in 
nature:  ‘What  is  the  purpose  of 
this  thing?  Why  was  it  formed 
so?’ 

“We  have  long  since  ceased  to  so 
concern  ourselves.  We  accept  the 
existence  of  such  things  and  the 

3» 


Wisdom  of  the  God  in  so  forming 
them,  and  let  it  be  an  end  to  the 
matter.  It  is  not  Wisdom  to  pursue 
Seeking  to  absurd  lengths." 

“Neither  is  it  Wisdom  to  cease 
Seeking  while  still  in  the  folds  of 
ignorance,”  Ketan  blazed  reck- 
lessly. “It  is  little  wonder  that  no 
truly  great  Seekers  have  been 
found  since  the  great  Igon  did  his 
work — and  was  exiled  and  nearly 
slain  for  it.  Seekers  since  then 
have  been  stifled  by  the  traditions 
that  have  crusted  about  our  Wis- 
dom. I have  broken  those  tradi- 
tions and  see  what  I have  found !” 

He  held  up  a handful  of  small 
seeds.  “Within  these  ovules — into 
whose  purpose  you  never  thought 
to  inquire — is  the  potential  crea- 
tion of  new  plants.  I have  put 
some  of  them  in  moist  ground  and 
supplied  them  with  conditions  as 
they  are  in  the  Dark  Land  and  this 
is  the  result.” 

He  swept  a hand  towards  a row 
of  twenty  plants,  varying  sys- 
tematically in  height. 

“These  were  created  one  day 
apart,  and  each  came  from  one  tiny 
ovule.  Respected  Seekers,  we  have 
in  our  hands  the  secret  of  life  it- 
self.” 

A wave  of  frowning  consterna- 
tion swept  through  the  Council. 
Someone — Ketan  didn’t  see  who — 
murmured,  “A  commendable  work, 
if  this  thing  be  true.” 

But  Nabah  was  instantly  on  his 
feet.  “See  how  he  blasphemes!  I 
call  now  for  his  declassing.  We 
cannot  have  such  among  the  respect- 
ful inhabitants  of  Kronweld. 

40 


There  is  nothing  such  a matt 
would  not  do.  Listen  to  him:  ‘We 
have  in  our  hands  the  secret  of  life 
itself.’  Next  he  will  propose  that 
we  open  the  Temple  of  Birth  to  all 
Kronweld !” 

It  was  a shocking,  unseemly 
thing,  the  way  Nabah  ranted.  And 
Leader  Hoult  seemed  utterly  dis- 
inclined to  control  him.  Suddenly, 
Ketan  saw  the  pattern  of  the  op- 
position. While  there  was  no  ac- 
tual collusion  between  them,  Hoult 
was  giving  Nabah  free  rein  and 
counting  on  the  nature  of  the  man 
to  sway  the  Council  to  condemn 
Ketan. 

Yet  Ketan  hesitated  in  accepting 
such  a picture.  It  was  a poor  game, 
seemingly,  that  Hoult  was  playing. 
The  other  members  had  an  instinc- 
tive dislike  for  Nabah;  they  would 
not  be  overly  inclined  to  accept  his 
leadership  in  pronouncing  sentence. 
Either  that,  or  Hoult  was  so  con- 
fident that  Ketan’s  presentation 
would  be  so  weak  it  would  require 
no  more  opposition  than  Nabah 
could  influence. 

Deetan,  one  of  the  elderly  women 
Seekers  on  the  Council,  ignored 
Nabah’s  protests.  She  addressed 
Ketan  with  interest.  “If  this  is  a 
natural  thing,  and  the  way  plants 
are  created  in  Dark  Land,  why  is  it 
not  a common  thing  in  Kronweld? 
Why  must  all  plants  be  brought 
here  from  Dark  Land?” 

Ketan  shook  his  head.  “That  is 
yet  another  Mystery,  one  on  which 
I have  found  no  Wisdom.  Much 
work  remains  to  be  done  on  the 
entire  matter.  I have  made  but  a 
beginning.” 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Deetan  turned  to  Leader  Hoult. 
“I  find  nothing  that  blasphemes  the 
God  in  this  man’s  Seeking.  I offer 
my  commendations.  He  has  opened 
a wonderful  new  field  to  us.” 
Leader  Hoult  nodded.  “We  shall 
Seek  into  the  matter  further.” 
Ketan  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. He  saw  unmistakably  that 
Hoult  was  dismayed  by  the  turn 
of  events.  But  there  was  a crafty 
reserve  in  his  eyes. 

Ketan  knew  what  that  reserve 
was.  Hoult  was  sure  Ketan  had 
not  finished. 

Should  he  go  on,  he  wondered. 
He  could  stop  now  with  the  achieve- 
ment of  having  opened  the  study 
this  far.  But  he  could  not  stop 
now.  This  was  only  preparation 
for  what  was  to  come.  If  he 
stopped  here,  he  would  fail. 

“Have  you  more  to  show  us?” 
Hoult  leaned  forward  with  feigned 
interest  in  the  actual  work. 

“I  have  more,”  he  said.  “When 
Jgon  first  went  into  Dark  Land  you 
remember  that  men  of  Kronweld 
could  conceive  of  no  other  form  of 
living,  moving  beings  other  than 
themselves.  When  Igon  brought 
back  reports  and  pictures  of  the 
Hors  and  other  creatures  of  Dark 
Land  his  life  was  sought  because  of 
his  bold  blasphemy.” 

“Those  were  primitive  times, 
relatively  speaking,”  remarked 
Nabah.  “You  are  not  likening 
yourself  and  your  times  to  that 
situation,  I trust?” 

“Regardless  of  the  relative  states 
of  Wisdom  between  Igon’s  day 
and  my  own,  the  creatures  of  Dark 
Land  are  still  looked  upon  with  holy 


revulsion  and  are  not  fit  subjects 
for  Seeking.” 

"Rightfully  so,”  agreed  Anot. 
“Seeking  should  be  reserved  for 
the  higher  things  of  life.” 

Ketan  stared  at  the  semicircle  of 
faces  about  him.  Respected  Seek- 
ers! Why,  they  were  little  more 
than  aged  children  in  their  con- 
fused and  turbid  thinking. 

He  ignored  the  illogical  inter- 
ruption. “I  spent  most  of  a tarn  in 
Dark  Land  some  time  ago.  There, 
I encountered  the  Bors  in  their  na- 
tural environment.  And  I dis- 
covered that  what  is  true  of  the 
plants  of  Dark  Land  is  also  true  of. 
the  animal  creatures.” 

He  waited  a minute,  a long  pause 
while  this  sank  into  the  minds  of 
his  judges.  Then  a bedlam  erupted. 
Half  the  staid  Councilors  were  on 
their  feet  shouting  imprecations  at 
him. 

Hoult  was  forced  to  act. 
“Enough  of  this!  Is  it  possible 
that  the  wild  imaginings  of  a mere 
boy  should  arouse  the  Council  to 
such  indignity?” 

To  Ketan  he  turned.  “A  mo- 
ment ago  you  roused  our  interest 
in  your  work.  Now,  you  move  me 
to  put  the  judgment  to  the  Council 
at  once.  You  are  not  capable  of 
pursuing  a career  of  Seeking  fur- 
ther— stating  that  the  animals  of 
Dark  Land  are  grown  from  seeds 
that  are  embedded  in  the  ground.” 

“I  did  not  say  that.  I stated  that 
the  same  principle  that  applies  to 
plants  applies  also  to  animals.  In 
this  instance  the  ovule  that  grows 
into  a new  creation  does  not  require 


RENAISSANCE 


41 


embedding  in  the  ground.  Rather, 
it  remains  inside  the  body  of  one 
of  the  animals — the  woman  animal 
,if  we  may  so  term  it — and  grows  to 
a certain  degree  of  maturity  there 
before  separating  itself.” 

Anot  rose  dramatically.  “From 
the  days  of  the  great  Igon  down  to 
the  present,  men  have  gone  into 
Dark  Land,  studied  minutely  the 
things  which  the  God  has  placed 
there,  and  hundreds  of  pictures  of 
Bors  have  been  brought  back.  All 
of  them  showed  animals  of  a uni- 
form size.  Yet  now  we  are  asked 
to  believe  that  Bors  exist  so  small 
as  to  be  able  to  be  contained  in  the 
body  of  another  Bors.  I,  for  one, 
have  had  enough  of  this  drivel.  It 
appears  that  Leader  Hoult  is  cor- 
rect in  calling  for  judgment  of  the 
Council.” 

He  sat  down  amid  nods  of  ap- 
proval. Ketan  looked  about  the 
semicircle  with  pity  in  his  glance. 
Then  without  a sound  he  turned 
and  went  to  the  huge  air-condi- 
tioned cage  of  the  Bors,  which  had 
been  rolled  in  behind  him. 

He  adjusted  the  controls  that 
caused  it  to  roll  slowly  towards  the 
space  in  the  center  of  the  Council 
and  put  a plane  of  three-quarters 
polarized  vibration  in  front  of  the 
animals. 

There  was  no  sound  for  a mo- 
ment until  the  largest  Bors  emitted 
a bellow  that  echoed  like  thunder 
in  the  great  hall. 

“Servicemen !”  Leader  Hoult 
shrieked. 

Varano  and  his  companion  came 
running  from  out  of  nowhere. 
They  seized  him  by  the  arms  and 

42 


held  him  stiffly. 

“Before  you  order  me  out,”  ad- 
vised Ketan,  “look  within — 
closely.” 

Involuntarily,  the  group  let  their 
fearful  glances  stray  into  the  depths 
of  the  cage.  One  by  one  they  saw 
it,  and  were  transfixed. 

The  baby  Bors  nosed  out  from 
under  the  larger  animal  and 
sniffed  at  the  front  of  the  cage, 
blind  to  the  gaping  Seekers  who 
were  nearly  invisible  behind  the 
polarized  shield. 

Leader  Hoult  sank  back  in  his 
seat  with  almost  real  amazement  on 
his  face.  “This  is  an  astounding 
thing  you  have  shown  us — but  of 
course  it  does  not  prove  your  con- 
tention regarding  the  origin  of  the 
animal.” 

“Can  you  wait  any  longer  for 
proof  that  he  is  worthy  of  declass- 
ing?” shouted  Nabah.  “He  has 
violated  the  ban  of  Kronweld 
against  bringing  creatures  of  Dark 
Land  here.” 

“Yes,  there  is  that,  too — ” Leader 
Hoult  murmured.  Ketan  looked 
into  his  eyes  and  sensed  that  the 
man  was  turning  over  in  his  mind 
the  possibilities  offered  now  by  this 
new  outrage  against  society. 

Ketan  shrugged  free  of  the  grip 
of  the  Servicemen.  “Leave  me 
alone  for  half  a tara  with  the  two 
larger  Bors  and  I will  prove  my  dis- 
covery to  you.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  I will  show'  you  three  Bors.” 

Cries  of  “No !”  arose.  It  started 
with  Nabah,  who  cried  out,  ‘.‘This 
man  is  too  dangerous  to  remain  in 
Kronweld.” 

Deep  within  them,  four  or  five  of 
ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


the  Councilors  felt  a tug  of  the  an- 
cient spirit  of  Seeking  which  had 
moved  genius  in  past  ages  to  defy 
barriers  of  the  God  and  of  man  to 
'probe  the  secrets  of  Ivronvveld  and 
Fire  Land  and  Dark  Land. 

But  the  surge  was  weak  and  these 
remained  silent  under  the  smother- 
ing weight  of  decades  of  tradition. 

"We  canot  permit  such  an  experi- 
ment, Ketan,”  Hoult  spoke  almost 
benevolently  now.  "The  very  pres- 
ence of  the  Bors  is  in  defiance  of 
our  holy  bans.  This  alone  is  more 
than  enough  to  declass  you.  It  is 
unthinkable  that  we  could  counte- 
nance your  further  Seeking  along 
these  lines,  however,  in  considera- 
tion of  jour  work  on  plants  I am 
moved  to  suggest  mercy  to  the  ex- 
tent of — ” 

“I’m  not  asking  for  your 
mercy!”  Ketan  flared.  “I’m  asking 
for  the  application  of  Wisdom, 
which  appears  to  be  a rare  occur- 
rence in  this  hall.” 

He  halted,  awed  by  his  own  fool- 
ish rashness,  then  rushed  on.  “If 
the  Bors  are  a defiance  of  the 
whimsies  of  the  old  men  of  Kron- 
weld,  then  away  with  the  Bors.  I 
challenge  you  to  let  me  prove  what 
I have  found  in  a way  that  no  man 
can  deny.” 

“And  how  is  that?”  Leader 
Hoult  asked  coldly. 

“Human  beings  can  demonstrate 
the  truth  of  my  findings  as  well  as 
can  Bors.” 

Tlv^e  was  a terrible  silence  in  the 
hall.  The  only  sound  was  the  muf- 
fled snorting  of  the  small  Bors. 
Then  Leader  Hoult  spoke  softly — 


softly  with  acid  menace. 

“What  was  that  you  said, 
Ketan  ?” 

“Allow  me  to  complete  my  work 
and  become  a Seeker.  It  has  been 
agreed  that  I and  the  Seeker  Klta 
will  make  our  companionship  at 
that  time. 

“We  will  show  you  then  the 
origin  of  human  life  and  wipe  away 
the  fog  and  blind  superstition  that 
clouds  this  Mystery — we  will  point 
the  way  to  the  destruction  of  the 
Temple  of  Birth  and  make  common 
its  Mysteries  among  all  men  of 
Kronweld.” 

“I  think  you  had  better  say 
more.”  Leader  Hoult’s  words  were 
deliberately  carved  of  ice  and 
chipped  off  one  at  a time. 

"The  interior  of  the  bodies  of 
men  and  women  contain  mechan- 
isms similar  to  those  I have  shown 
you  in  the  plants — and  similar  to 
those  of  the  Bors.  As  with  the 
Bors,  the  ovules  which  create  hu- 
man life  are  carried  within  the  in- 
terior of  the  woman  being  until  the 
young  creation  is  separated  from 
her.  That  is  how  you  and  I,  re- 
spected Seekers,  came  into  being !” 

There  was  no  outcry,  no  shouts 
of  condemnation,  no  shrinking 
from  blasphemy. 

The  feelings  of  the  men  and 
women  on  the  Seekers  Council 
went  to  infinite  depths  below  such 
expression.  They  merely  sat  and 
stared  in  dumb  horror  at  Ketan. 

“How  do  you  know  what  is  in 
the  interior  of  the  human  body?” 
Leader  Hoult  inquired  in  level 
tones. 

Then  Nabah  was  on  his  feet, 


RENAISSANCE 


43 


shouting  again.  “He  has  dared 
desecrate  a human  form  by  cutting 
into  it.  Our  only  obligation  is 
death  for  this  man!” 

“I  have  no  need  to  cut,”  replied 
Ketan.  “I  have  a machine  with 
which  I can  see  into  the  depths  of 
flesh  and  bone.  I have  mapped 
and  drawn  the  entire  mechanisms 
of  the  human  body.  They  are  in- 
tricate beyond  belief.” 

Suddenly  one  of  the  Councilors 
was  very  sick.  He  left  his  seat 
and  hurried  away.  A Serviceman 
approached  to  clean  up. 

Those  adjacent  moved  away,  but 
one  of  them  stared  straight  in  front 
of  him  and  spoke  in  a hoarse  whis- 
per. “Who  in  all  Kronweld  since 
the  God  first  placed  man  here  has 
conceived  a more  monstrous 
thought  ? 

“Imagine  walking  along  the 
streets  of  the  city  and  encountering 
another  human  being — and  know- 
ing that  you  had  once  been  inside 
that  body?” 

He,  too,  became  sick  and  hurried 
away. 

VIII. 

The  Seekers  Council  confiscated 
the  plants  and  the  Bors  and  all  the 
evidence  and  exhibits  Ketan  had 
brought  with  him,  the  result  of  long 
tar  a of  work. 

Serviceman  Varano  was  detailed 
to  accompany  Ketan  back  to  his 
house.  The  place  seemed  as  empty 
as  his  heart.  The  two  of  them  en- 
tered silently. 

The  Council  had  refused  to  re- 
turn judgment  in  his  presence, 

44 


which  in  itself  was  a strange  aberra- 
tion of  their  normal  procedure. 
Ketan  wondered  what  reason  lay 
behind  this.  Elta’s  pleading  warn- 
ing came  back  to  him,  “Hoult  will 
not  let  you  live !” 

The  desire  to  live,  to  fight  again, 
was  dimmed.  He  had  failed.  He 
had  failed  miserably.  He  had  tried 
to  blast  ages  of  untruth  with  a sin- 
gle explosion.  Elta  had  been  right. 
He  should  have  done  it  slowly,  a 
factor  at  a time.  He  saw  that  now. 
If  he  had  stopped  with  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  plant  reproduction,  they 
would  have  accepted  that  much  of 
his  claims.  He  had  been  a blind, 
impetuous  fool. 

He  wondered  what  was  left  now. 

He  didn’t  have  to  wonder.  There 
was  only  one  thing.  He  didn’t  in- 
tend to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life 
as  a Serviceman  in  Kronweld,  even 
if  the  Council  should  be  content 
with  mere  declassing.  If  Hoult 
should  try  to  kill  him,  he  would  not 
die  without  fighting,  even  if  the  im- 
pulse was  low  at  this  time. 

He  would  carry  out  the  plan  that 
Elta  had  urged  upon  him,  the  plan 
they  had  dreamed  over  and  worked 
out  long  ago,  when  it  seemed  a 
pleasantly  wild  and  romantic  thing 
to  exile  themselves  in  Dark  Land 
and  there  work  out  thei'r  forbidden 
Mysteries,  to  build  up  a renegade 
community  of  free  Seekers  in 
Dark  Land. 

This  was  all  that  was  left. 

He  turned  to  Varano  as  they  en- 
tered the  house.  “You  heard  the 


proceedings,  what  do  you  think?” 
“I  am  not  permitted  to  speak  of 
the  matter.” 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENC 


# 


. ICTION 


"Come,”  Ketan  snorted  irritably. 
"Last  night  we  spoke  as  equals  and 
co-operators.  Has  anything 
changed  since  then  t” 

Varatio  hesitated,  gazing  into 
Ketan’s  eyes  with  wistful  admira- 
tion. “All  right  then— you're  a 
genius  and  a fool.  That’s  what  I 
think.” 

"I  doubt  the  first,  but  I’m  begin- 
ning to  agree  with  you  about  the 
second.  Yet — how  is  this  revolu- 
tion going  to  be  brought  about?” 

He  turned  towards  the  distant 
Temple  of  Birth  lying  at  the  base 
of  the  curtain  of  night  that  spread 
to  infinity.  "The  symbol  of  all 
that  impedes  Seeking.  And  it  will 
destroy  Kronweld  if  it  is  not  first 
destroyed.  How  can  it  be  done? 
Women  go  blindly  into  that  unholy 
place.  Then  spend  their  lives  there 
as  breeding  vessels.  That’s  where 
the  inhabitants  of  Kronweld  come 
from.  Why  do  they  try  to  hide  it 
from  us?  Who  is  it  in  there  that 
controls  Kronweld  in  this  manner? 
Is  there  no  one  among  all  our  Seek- 
ers who  knows  the  truth?” 

“If  I recall  your  statements,” 
said  Varano,  “you  said  it  required 
both  the  man  animal  and  the 
woman  animal  among  the  Bors  to 
produce  a new  creation,  and  that 
this  was  true  also  of  human  beings. 
If  so,  why  is  it  that  only  women  go 
into  the  Temple  of  Birth?” 

“I  don't  know,”  Ketan  admitted. 
“In  all  our  history  there  is  no  rec- 
ord of  a man  ever  entering  into  it. 
Perhaps  some  Seeker  in  there  has 
found  a way  to  make  that  unneces- 
sary. It  is  not  inconceivable  that 
this  could  be  done.  It  is  one  of  the 


unknown  mysteries  of  the  matter. 

"But  I'll  prove  it  to  them  yet! 
Varano,  if  you  believe  what  you 
said,  then  help  me.” 

"What  can  I do?” 

“I’m  going  to  leave  Kronweld. 
I’m  going  to  take  Elta  and  we’ll 
exile  ourselves  in  Dark  Land. 
We’ll  produce  a new  creation  of 
human  life  and  bring  it  back  to 
show  the  ignorant  fools  on  the 
Seekers  Council.” 

“You  wouldn’t  dare !” 

“Yes — I would.  Elta  wanted  to 
do  it  before  the  hearing.  I should 
have  listened  to  her  then.  We  will 
dare  to  do  it,  all  right.  Which  is 
better:  To  live  in  the  freedom  of 
exile,  or  to  live  a mere  existence 
barren  of  Wisdom  and  Seeking 


as  I do, 


ft 


Varano  finished  for 


him. 

“I  didn’t  say  that,  but — ” 

"It’s  the  only  thing  you  could 
mean.  But  I’ll  answer  you.  It  was 
right  for  me  to  become  a Service- 
man. I never  had  the  imagination 
or  gift  for  Seeking  that  you  have. 
In  your  case — well,  sometimes  I 
wish  that  we  had  met  long  ago,  be- 
fore I was  declassed.  Things 
might  have  been  different — for 
both  of  us.  For  me,  it  is  over. 
For  you,  I would  say  go  ahead. 
Prove  to  all  Kronweld,  if  you  can, 
that  the  Council  is  wrong.  They 
will  kill  you  for  it,  probably,  but  in 
the  tara  to  come,  men  may  hail  you 
as  they  now  hail  Igon.” 

“I  don’t  want  to  be  hailed.  I 
only  want  to  prove  I’m  right  and 
find  the  secrets  behind  all  these 
great  Mysteries.  But,  if  we  es- 


RENAISSANCE 


45 


cape  to  Dark  Land,  I will  need  your 
help  to  get  past  the  barrier  that 
blocks  the  city  from  Fire  Land.  If 
you  accompany  us,  that  can  be  done. 
Later,  you  can  testify  that  you  were 
overpowered  and  forced  to  ac- 
company us.  Will  you  do  it?” 

“Yes,”  Varano  said.  “And  per- 
haps when  history  records  your 
achievements  my  name  will  not  be 
forgotten  as  one  who  aided  you  in 
your  work.” 

“Forget  history,”  Ketan  snapped. 
“It  makes  no  difference  if  no  one 
but  the  Bors  of  Dark  Land  re- 
member us,  as  long  as  we  accom- 
plish our  purpose.  Now,  there  is 
much  to  be  done.” 

“You  have  shields?” 

“Only  body.  I’ll  need  a shielded 
car  in  order  to  pass  through  Fire 
Land.  Seeker  Janu  has  one.  I’ll 
obtain  his.” 

“He’s  not  likely  to  grant  per- 
mission.” 

“I'm  not  likely  to  ask  for  it,” 
Ketan  said  grimly.  “You  must 
help  me  there,  too.  It  won’t  be 
easy  to  steal  such  a car  and  get 
away  quickly  before  an  alarm  is 
raised.  Fortunately,  such  things 
don’t  happen  often  enough  for  the 
Council  to  plan  for  them." 

Varano  paled.  “It’s  too  danger- 
ous. Theft  is  a terrible  crime.” 

“Not  half  as  terrible  as  some 
crimes  that  are  being  committed  in 
Kronweld.  Let’s  eat  and  refresh 
ourselves  now.  We’ll  detail  our 
plans  later. 

The  first  globe  was  disappearing 
below  the  horizon.  The  half-light 
had  .begun  to  set  in,  and  all  the 

4« 


landscape  took  on  the  eerie,  dimly 
lit  aspect  of  a dream. 

The  inhabitants  over  the  city 
were  shedding  their  day  cloaks  at 
this  time  and  going  into  the  most 
active  period  of  their  day,  unham- 
pered by  the  heavy  garments. 

Ketan  and  Varano  shed  theirs  as 
they  stepped  into  the  interior  room. 
They  washed  and  changed  their 
brief  harness  wear  and  sat  before 
the  refreshment  panel. 

“Might  as  well  have  a last  one,” 
Ketan  smiled  grimly  as  he  pressed 
the  secret  combination  that  pro- 
duced a thick  Bors  steak.  “The 
Director  of  Food  Center  would  col- 
lapse if  he  knew  this  came  out  of 
one  of  his  newest  regulation 
panels.” 

“How  do  you  do  it?” 

“Tapped  the  regular  channels 
and  put  a lead  from  my  own  auto- 
matic kitchen.” 

After  the  meal  Ketan  began  his 
extensive  preparations  for  the  trip 
to  exile.  He  gathered  the  equip- 
ment and  materials  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  take  with  him.  These  were 
meager.  The  remainder  of  the  pile 
he  gathered  was  provisions  and  sup- 
plies for  personal  needs.  All  his 
notes  and  Seeking  materials  that 
he  did  not  take  he  stored  in  proper 
places  where  Branen  would  find 
them  easily. 

“I  must  go  to  Elta  now,”  he  an- 
nounced to  Varano.  “You  will 
grant  permission?” 

“Yes — but  be  careful.  I think 
it  would  be  best  if  I remained  here 
in  case  some  communication  should 
come  for  me.  Do  not  let  yourself 
be  detected  while  you’re  out.  I 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


would  have  to  join  you  in  exile  i£ 
they  found  I had  let  you  out.” 

“That  might  not  be  a bad  idea 
at  that.” 

Varano  looked  serious,  but  said 
nothing. 

Ketan  stepped  to  the  plate  and 
ordered  a connection  with  Elta’s 
house.  He  waited  long  and  impa- 
tiently while  the  signal  sounded  and 
the  response  indicated  endlessly 
that  she  was  not  there.  She  had 
left  no  indication  of  her  where- 
abouts for  prospective  callers. 

Ketan  cut  off.  She  was  always 
there  at  this  time.  He  wondered 
where  she  could  have  gone. 

He  tried  the  headquarters  of  the 
Seekers  Group,  a social  organiza- 
tion. She  was  not  there.  Nor  was 
she  at  the  House  of  Wisdom  or  any 
of  its  units.  He  then  had  her  called 
at  the  entertainment  centers  and 
there  was  still  no  response. 

Worry  began  to  edge  into  his 
mind  and  displace  rationality. 
“Something  must  have  happened. 
A person  just  doesn’t  totally  dis- 
appear from  all  her  usual  loca- 
tions.” 

“She  could  be  working  with 
some  other  Seeker  at  his  house 
until  this  time,”  offered  Varano. 

“She  would  have  left  some  word 
for  callers.” 

"You  can’t  be  sure  of  that.” 

“But  I’ve  got  to  find  her.  The 
time  is  growing  short.  I’ll  take  the 
car  and  go  look.” 

“You  can’t  do  more  than  you 
have  already.  Besides,  you’re  lia- 
ble to  be  caught  if  you  just  cruise 
around  purposelessly.” 

“I’ll  go  to  her  house  and  keep 


you  in  touch  with  every  place  I go. 
If  anyone  calls  for  me  here,  tell 
them  I’m  not  able  to  see  anyone — 
after  today's  ordeal.” 

He  went  out  into  the  night  and 
Varano  heard  the  soft  whine  of 
the  atomic  powered  car  fade  in  the 
distance. 

As  Ketan  drove  away,  new  fears 
began  to  froth  within  him.  He 
remembered  Elta’s  previous  words : 
“I  must  go  away  for  a little  while.” 
And:  “This  will  be  the  end  of  the 
life  we’ve  known — Go  into  Dark 
Land — Wait  for  me  there — ” 

What  had  she  meant?  Had  she 
actually  conceived  some  mad  plan 
and  already  carried  it  out? 

There  was  little  danger  of  en- 
countering anyone  who  would  re- 
port him.  Only  the  Seekers  Coun- 
cil and  the  First  Group  and  the 
two  Servicemen  knew  he  was  con- 
fined to  his  house.  Even  the  pres- 
ence of  the  Serviceman  was  a mere' 
formality.  For  him  to  attempt  es- 
cape was  an  unthinkable  breach  of 
custom. 

Yet  there  was  the  vague  pos- 
sibility that  Leader  Hoult  might 
not  consider  him  above  making 
such  a breach  after  the  hearing  that 
had  taken  place.  . 

He  cruised  along  the  streets 
boldly.  The  fading  twilight  was 
enhanced  by  the  lines  of  activators 
above  the  streets  that  energized 
and  made  luminous  a thin  sheet  of 
air  itself.  The  city  was  day  bright. 

He  passed  into  the  more  luxuri- 
ous part  of  town  where  the  full 
Seekers  lived. 

Elta  disliked  living  alone  in  a 


RENAISSANCE 


47 


house  of  her  own  and  had  moved 
into  one  of  the  four  unit  combines 
where  quarters  were  shared  with 
three  other  Seekers. 

Ketan  stopped  before  the  beau- 
tifully gardened  plot  and  raced  to 
the  opening  between  the  marble 
colonnades.  The  pale-green  walls 
were  restful  to  his  eyes  as  he  sought 
the  third  compartment  which  was 
Elta’s. 

He  pressed  the  signal  expecting 
as  always,  an  instant  response.  A 
cold  numbness  flooded  over  him  as 
he  stared  at  the  response  which 
came.  A flashing  card  lighted  mo- 
mentarily. 

“Uninhabited,”  it  read. 

Ketan  pushed  wildly  on  the  sig- 
nal. Again  came  the  response  as 
before.  He  pushed  the  door  open 
and  stared  within.  He  could  not 
believe  the  emptiness  he  beheld.  He 
opened  drawers  and  cabinets  and 
examined  the  shelves.  Not  an 
item  of  Elta’s  possessions  remained. 
She  had  vanished  utterly  from  the 
place. 

All  the  mad  enthusiasm  for  the 
wild  escape  into  Dark  Land 
drained  out  of  him.  The  ambition 
that  had  driven  him  on  to  defiance 
of  the  Seekers  Council  suddenly 
seemed  dim  and  lifeless  without 
Elta. 

Where  could  she  have  gone  ? 

Then  he  began  to  order  in  his 
mind  the  catalogue  of  possible  hap- 
penings. A person  could  not  sim- 
ply vanish  into  the  air.  She  had 
to  be  some  place,  and  Kronweld, 
from  one  boundary  to  the  other, 
was  not  large.  He’d  search  it  from 
one  end  to  the  other  if  need  be. 


Then  he  remembered  he  was  a 
fugitive  and  his  hopes  crumbled 
again. 

He  strode  out  of  the  room  and 
closed  tire  door  softly  behind  him. 
He  went  to  the  door  of  the  adja- 
cent compartment  and  pressed  the 
signal.  The  entrance  response  in- 
vited him  in. 

Two  women  were  in  the  room. 
Seekers  whom  he  knew  slightly, 
only  by  sight.  He  knew  he  was  a 
stranger  to  them. 

“Respect  to  you,”  he  said.  “I'm 
looking  for  the  Seeker  Elta.  I ex- 
pected to  find  her  home,  and  now  I 
see  her  compartment  is  uninhabited. 
Can  you  tell  me  where  she  went?” 

One  of  them  rose,  a tall  willowy 
woman. 

“You  must  be  Ketan,”  she 
smiled.  “Elta  spoke  often  about 
you.” 

She  surveyed  him  intimately  for 
a moment.  “Now  I know  Elta  is 
even  a bigger  fool  than  we  thought 
when  she  left  this  morning.  But 
don’t  tell  me  you  don’t  know  where 
she  went !” 

The  woman’s  gaze  irritated  him. 
‘‘I  wouldn't  ask  if  I knew,”  he  said. 

“She  has  left  for  the  Preparation 
Center.  Tomorrow  she  enters  the 
Temple  of  Birth  to  become  a Lady 
of  the  Temple.” 

IX. 

The  silence  when  the  woman 
stopped  speaking  was  terrifying. 
Ketan  felt  it  was  palpable,  crush- 
ing in  upon  him  like  a vise. 

He  spoke  in  a dead  monotone. 
“You  are  sure  of  that?” 


48 


ASTOUNDING  SC IENCE -F  ICTION 


The  woman  nodded.  “I  saw  her 
application  acceptance  and  her  or- 
ders to  appear  this  morning.  But 
don’t  act  as  if  you’d  just  been  de- 
classed. There  are  still  women  in 
Kronweld — Seekers  who  might  be 
very  companionable.  Won’t  you 
come  in  and  sit  down?  Try  some 
of  the  new  refreshments  that  the 
Food  Center  has  put  on  only  to- 
night.” 

‘‘No  . . . no  . . . respect  to  you,” 
Ketan  turned  mechanically  and 
went  into  the  hall.  “I  must  go. 
Wisdom.” 

He  hurried  into  tha  night. 

The  numb  shock  of  the  news 
dulled  all  but  the  senses  necessary 
to  drive  the  car  through  the  streets, 
and  he  drove  aimlessly  for  a time 
he  could  not  measure. 

This  could  not  be  what  Elta  had 
meant  when  she  told  him  she  was 
going  away  and  would  return  to 
him  soon.  There  was  no  returning 
from  the  Temple  of  Birth — ever. 

While  he  drove,  his  mind  began 
to  function  slowly  again.  The 
flight  into  Dark  Land  was  in  vain, 
now.  There  must  be  other  plans. 

He  drove  far,  around  the  entire 
circuit  of  the  city,  and  when  he 
had  completed,  his  new  plans  were 
focused  solidly  in  his  mind.  He 
found  himself  on  the  wide,  scenic 
roadway  that  passed  before  the 
Temple  of  Birth.  He  was  almost 
in  the  same  spot  that  he  and  Elta 
had  stood  when  the  Servicemen  ac- 
costed him. 

He  stopped  there  and  gazed  upon 
the  Temple  of  Birth.  The  smaller 
building  of  Preparation  Center, 
which  was  outside  the  purple  line, 


was  an  ordinary  building  of  the 
city,  except  that  there  was  only  a 
single  sealed  entrance  in  its  cubical 
hulk.  All  the  other  walls  were  per- 
fectly blank. 

Somewhere  within  those  walls 
Elta  was  going  through  unholy  rites 
known  only  to  the  God  himself. 

Ketan  knew  what  he  must  do. 

And  once  he  had  come  to  a de- 
cision, a curious,  frightening  clarity 
came  over  his  mind.  He  saw  that 
this  was  what  he  would  have  done 
in  any  event.  He  had  chosen — been 
guided  in  choosing — the  only  step 
for  which  he  had  been  ordained 
from  the  moment  he  had  emerged 
from  the  Temple  of  Birth  twelve 
Tara  before.  All  other  plans  would 
have  failed  regardless  of  his  efforts. 

As  this  thought  came  to  him,  he 
seemed  to  hear  a voice  but  he  wasn’t 
sure.  He  thought  it  said,  ‘‘That  is 
correct.  Hasten,  Lonely  One.” 

Varano  was  pacing  about  the 
room  in  soaring  anxiety  as  Ketan 
returned. 

“I  thought  you’d  never  come. 
That  fool  Nelav,  my  superior,  was 
here  twice.  I — ” 

Then  he  saw  Ketan’s  face. 
“What  did  you  find?” 

Ketan  told  him  of  Elta’s  action. 
Varano  was  disconsolate,  but  re- 
signed. “That  about  ends  it,  I 
guess.” 

Ketan  surveyed  the  Serviceman 
at  close  range  for  a long  moment 
then  drew  back  his  fist  in  a light- 
ning movement  and  felled  Varano 
with  a single  blow  on  the  jaw. 

"Respect  to  you,”  he  murmured 
as  the  Serviceman  crumpled  at  his 


EENAISSANCE 


•40 


feet.  “But  I’m  afraid  your  condi- 
tioning has  been  too  deeply  em- 
bedded for  me  to  ask  for  your  help 
from  here  out.” 

He  hoisted  the  limp  form  on  his 
shoulders,  " then  made  his  way 
through  the  hall  past  his  above- 
ground laboratories  and  down  the 
steep,  seemingly  endless  flight  of 
steps  into  the  depths  under  the 
house. 

He  took  the  Serviceman  into  one 
of  the  spotless  workrooms  where 
he  had  patiently  solved  the  problem 
of  the  creation  of  the  Bors  and  lay 
Varanofcon  a table.  He  examined 
the  man’s  breathing  closely,  then  he 
selected  an  injector  and  filled  it 
from  a colorless  bottle.  He  pumped 
the  substance  into  Varano’s  veins. 

After  a moment  the  Serviceman 
became  still  and  almost  lifeless.  His 
breathing  slowed  until  it  was  nearly 
undetectable  and  his  heart  move- 
ments came  farther  and  farther 
apart.  At  last  they  steadied  until 
there  was  no  more  slowing.  Ketan 
was  satisfied. 

Varano  would  sleep  for  at  least 
thirty  days. 

This  work  was  not  the  result  of 
Ketan’s  own  Seeking.  It  belonged 
to  Branen  and  another  member  of 
the  Unregistereds  who  had  worked 
it  out  in  conjunction  with  Ketan's 
work  on  the  Bors. 

They  had  made  only  a small  be- 
ginning in  understanding  the  func- 
tions of  the  bodily  mechanisms  and 
Ketan  hesitated  to  use  the  chemical 
on  Varano.  But  there  was  no  other 
solution.  He  believed  it  was  safe. 

In  the  silent  room  he  considered 
contacting  Branen  and  conferring 

co 


further  now  that  it  was  certain  that 
he  would  have  to  assume  Ketan’s 
leadership  of  the  Unregistereds. 
But  there  was  little  he  could  hope 
to  accomplish.  Branen  would  have 
to  do  the  best  he  could  from  here 
on.  Ketan  hoped  he  had  enough 
imagination  to  keep  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  Unregistereds  from  fall- 
ing apart  while  he  was  gone — and 
longer  if  he  failed  to  come  back. 

He  wrote  Branen  a letter  ex- 
plaining Varano’s  presence  and  in- 
structed him  to  put  the  Serviceman 
in  a deserted  public  place  at  the  end 
of  the  thirty  days  that  he  might  re- 
gain consciousness  outside  Ketan’s 
home. 

This  he  put  with  the  notes  and 
instructions  he  was  leaving  con- 
cerning his  work  and  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  Unregistereds. 

For  making  enlarged  models  of 
his  plants  for  study,  Ketan  had  a 
large  quantity  of  elastic  molding 
plastine.  He  selected  a mass  of  the 
whitish  stuff  and  mixed  it  rapidly 
with  a light  cream  and  rose  pig- 
ment. 

When  he  was  satisfied  with  the 
result  he  stripped  off  his  harness 
and  began  applying  the  stuff  to  his 
body,  slowly  remolding  his  con- 
tours and  pigmenting  his  body  from 
head  to  foot. 

The  result  was  almost  shocking 
to  him  as  he  viewed  himself  in  the 
metallic  mirror.  He  made  a credi- 
ble appearing  woman;  necessarily 
plump  in  order  to  smooth  out  his 
muscles,  but  satisfactory. 

The  sculptoring  was  a long  and 
tedious  job.  His  muscles  ached 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


with  the  strain  of  his  contortions 
when  he  was  through,  but  he  felt 
the  job  would  pass  the  inspection 
of  the  first  woman  herself. 

He  had  no  harness  or  light  night 
cloak  of  the  exact  type  that  was 
worn  by  women,  but  the  difference 
in  style  was  slight  and  he  would 
have  to  take  that  much  chance. 

Ketan  climbed  the  long  flight  of 
stairs  gingerly.  The  molding  on 
his  body  felt  as  if  it  would  peel 
loose  at  any  moment.  But  he  knew 
it  was  merely  an  illusion.  Nearly 
boiling  water  was  required  to  re- 
move it,  and  then  only  when  it  had 
been  partially  dissolved  in  a special 
solvent. 

tie  was  thankful  that  its  porous, 
minutely  spongy  nature  made  it  pos- 
sible for  him  to  perspire  or  it  would 
have  been  unendurable  in  the 
amount  of  skin  area  he  had  covered 
with  it. 

From  the  remains  of  the  posses- 


sions he  had  gathered  for  the  flight 
to  Dark  Land  he  selected  only  a 
powerful  harpoon  and  length  of 
fine  cord  which  he  had  used  as  a 
weapon. 

lie  sealed  the  opening  to  the  se- 
cret laboratory  so  that  no  one  who 
did  not  know  the  combination  to 
the  entrance  could  ever  gain  access 
to  it.  He  darkened  the  rest  of  the 
house  then  and  went  out  with  the 
harpoon  in  his  possession. 

He  did  not  use  the  car  but  started 
afoot  in  a long  easy  lope  that  car- 
ried him  swiftly  over  the  cast  sur- 
face of  the  road. 

There  were  few  others  about.  Fie 
slowed  when  he  passed  anyone,  so 
as  to  not  attract  attention,  and  ran 
on  when  he  could  not  be  observed. 

He  was  breathing  heavily  when 
he  came  to  the  circling  road  that 
passed  in  front  of  the  Temple  of 
Birth.  For  a moment  he  paused  to 
catch  his  breath  while  he  surveyed 


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RENAISSANCE 


61 


the  exterior  of  the  Preparation 
Center. 

The  squat,  three-level  building 
was  utterly  dead  to  all  outside  ap- 
pearances. The  single  door  that 
served  it  would  open  only  to  one 
of  the  secret  combinations  that 
would  identify  the  caller  as  one  who 
had  received  her  admission  orders 
carrying  her  particular  unique  code. 

Somewhere  within  that  building 
was  Elta. 

The  thought  repeated  itself  over 
and  over  in  his  brain. 

The  building  stood  alone.  The 
lighting  from  nearby  activators  was 
dim  and  fairly  dark  shadows  lay  at 
the  rear  of  the  structure  where  only 
the  pulsing  reflections  of  the  sky 
lit  it. 

He  glanced  cautiously  in  all  di- 
rections then  walked  boldly  towards 
the  building. 

On  a line  with  the  rear  wall,  he 
suddenly  darted  into  the  protecting 
half  darkness  of  its  shadow.  He 
paused,  listening  and  watching. 
Satisfied  he  was  unobserved,  he  un- 
slung the  small  harpoon  and  at- 
tached the  line  with  its  grapple 
head.  He  raised  and  fired  a silent 
shot. 

Up  into  the  air  the  grapple  sped, 
snaking  the  line  behind  it,  and  fell 
over  the  edge  of  the  roof.  Ketan 
pulled  it  taut,  then  tested  it  with  his 
full  weight.  It  held. 

He  braced  his  feet  firmly  against 
the  wall  and  began  climbing,  inch- 
ing his  way  to  the  top.  He  was 
(desperately  handicapped  by  the 
(smallness  of  the  line.  It  cut  and 
sliced  into  the  palms  of  his  hands, 

62 


but  he  continued  the  steady  ad- 
vance. 

At  the  top  he  finally  grasped  the 
edge  and  drew  himself  over.  He 
lay  a moment  flat  against  the  roof 
after  drawing  up  the  line  and  de- 
positing it  in  a corner. 

He  glanced  around  and  saw  what 
he  had  hoped  for. 

The  roof,  in  common  with  all 
others  in  Kronweld,  formed  a place 
for  refreshing  afid  sun-ray  expo- 
sure. There  was  an  entrance  from 
the  roof  to  the  interior  of  the  build- 
ing. He  was  counting  on  this  being 
open.  Seldom  was  such  a place 
locked. 

This  one  was. 

It  was  hopeless  to  try  to  break 
through  the  door  whose  electric 
lock  made  the  wall  and  door  as  a 
solid  mass  of  metal.  He  glanced 
in  momentary  despair  about  the  rest 
of  the  roof.  There  was  nothing 
but  the  usual  tables  and  chairs  and 
lounges  and  a semi-covered  refresh- 
ment panel  with  a capacity  of 
about  twenty,  he  noted. 

There  was  no  way  in  from  here 
short  of  blasting  a hole  in  the  thick 
stone  and  metal  structure  of  the 
building. 

The  only  other  alternative  was 
to  wait,  hoping  that  someone  would 
open  the  door  from  the  inside  and 
come  out  on  the  roof  before  it  was 
too  late  to  do  him  any  good.  He 
recognized  the  more  than  probable 
chance  that  a group  of  persons 
would  come  out  at  once,  making  his 
quest  hopeless. 

He  sat  down  beside  the  low  wall. 
Above,  the  violet  lights  flickered 
and  surged!  Occasionally  for  brief 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


moments  of  darkness,  he  could 
glimpse  the  pinpoints  of  light  in 
the  sky  that  hung  mysteriously  over 
Kronweld.  Another  of  the  great 
Mysteries  that  man  had  never 
solved.  And  the  Seekers  Council 
said  man  knew  almost  everything 
there  was  to  know ! 

The  unhurried  time  passed 
slowly.  He  dozed  once  and  roused 
in  alarm  at  a sudden  sound  in  the 
street  below,  but  it  was  not  re- 
peated. His  fingers  moved  over 
the  compartments  of  his  harness, 
idly  checking  the  small  kit  he  had 
filled  before  leaving  the  laboratory 
beneath  his  house.  It  still  con- 
tainedAhe  filled  injector  and  repair 
materials  for  his  disguise. 

Dawn  began  to  slowly  tinge  the 
eastern  fringe  of  the  sky.  The 
first  globe  would  rise  soon.  He 
wondered  desperately  what  to  do. 
It  would  be  too  dangerous  to  try 
to  get  down  the  way  he  had  come 
up  if  he  waited  much  longer.  If 
he  were  caught  here,  he  didn’t  know 
what  would  happen  to  him — in  ad- 
dition to  the  sentence  that  had  by 
now  been  passed  on  him  for  his 
blasphemy. 

There  was  no  precedent  for  the 
crime  he  was  committing  now. 

A sudden  slight  sound  at  the 
doorway  roused  the  full  alertness 
of  his  senses.  He  leaped  to  his  feet 
and  flattened  himself  against  the 
wall.  The  door  opened  quickly  for 
all  its  ponderous  mass.  A young 
woman  came  out  and  stood  still  a 
moment,  watching  the  lighting  sky. 

Ketan  noted  that  she  was  alone, 
and  with  further  gratefulness  he 


observed  that  she  was  only  a little 
less  than  his  height  and  blessed 
with  plumpness  that  was  not  quite 
as  ungainly  as  his  own  hurried 
sculptoring,  but  was  ample.  Her 
hair,  too,  was  trimmed  not  so  dif- 
ferently from  his  own. 

He  paused  and  watched  her.  She 
stood  face  to  the  rising  sun,  hair 
brushed  back  by  the  early  morning 
breeze.  A thin,  white,  glistening 
robe  covered  her  in  addition  to  the 
common  harness  wear.  He  guessed 
it  was  some  sort  of  ceremonial  garb. 

She  turned  with  a start  as  he 
stepped  away  from  the  wall.  “You 
frightened  me.  I thought  I was 
the  first  here  this  morning,”  she 
said.  “Isn’t  the  sky  beautiful  up 
here  in  the  morning?  I wonder  if 
we’ll  ever  see  it  again  afterwards?” 
Ketan  stepped  forward  smiling 
and  put  his  hands  quickly  about, 
her  throat.  “Make  no  sound,”  he 
said  in  passable  falsetto.  “You  will 
not  have  to  worry  about  the  view 
of  sunrise  from  the  Temple  of 
Birth.  You  are  not  going  there.” 
The  girl’s  eyes  went  wide  in  sud- 
den fear.  She  saw  he  was  not  one 
of  those  who  belonged  at  Prepara- 
tion Center.  “Who  are  you?”  she 
choked  out. 

“I  hope  you  never  find  out.  Out 
of  your  clothes,  quickly  now.  I 
must  exchange  with  you.” 

She  trembled  even  more  fear- 
fully. “No!  These  are  my  induc- 
tion robes.  I must  wear  them  to- 
day to  the  Temple  of  Birth.” 
“That’s  why  I want  them,”  Ketan 
said  grimly.  Pie  loosed  one  hand 
and  tore  the  fastening  loose  at  her 
throat  and  removed  her  robe.  She 


RENAISSANCE 


53 


struggled  frantically  until  he  car- 
ried her  to  the  corner  where  he 
had  left  the  harpoon  and  line.  He 
bound  her  hands  and  gagged  her 
mouth  with  the  corner  of  the  cloak. 
Then  he  swiftly  exchanged  cloth- 
ing. 

When  he  was  through,  he  freed 
the  bonds  and  fastened  a loop  in  the 
end  of  the  line  to  fit  her  foot. 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  ?”  she 
.cried. 

“Nothing  that  will  harm  you.” 
He  seized  her  tightly  and  drew  out 
the  injector  which  he  had  trans- 
ferred to  the  stolen  harness.  She 
had  never  seen  such  an  instrument, 
but  something  of  Ketan's  manner 
, suggested  its  purpose  and  she  cried 
out  in  terror. 

He  plunged  the  point  into  her 
arm  and  emptied  it. 

“Now,  put  your  foot  in  this  loop 
and  hang  onto  the  line.  I will  lower 
you  over  the  edge  to  the  ground.” 
He  spoke  with  a threatening  hand 
on  her  throat. 

“No!”  she  cried  in  sudden  shame. 
“I  have  taken  my  vows.  I must  go 
into  the  Temple.  I can  never  again 
live  in  Kronweld.  I would  be 
shunned  as  a Bors  walking  in  the 
streets.  Let  me  go !” 

“As  soon  as  you  are  on  the 
ground  you  can  find  the  nearest 
Serviceman  and  tell  him  what  I 
have  done.  You  will  be  freed  of 
blame  and  can  enter  the  next  tara 
into  the  Temple,  perhaps.” 

“They’ll  kill  you!” 

“Perhaps.  Now  quickly — ” 

He  dropped  her  to  the  edge  and 
pushed  threateningly.  She  grasped 
the  line  and  fit  it  to  her  foot  in  self- 

64 


preservation.  Then  he  lowered  her 
swiftly  down.  She  stood  a moment 
looking  up  in  bitter  hatred  and  fear, 
but  Ketan  was  gone  and  the  line 
flicked  up  to  the  roof  again. 

As  he  went  back  to  the  door  he 
caught  a glimpse  of  her  racing 
fleetly  down  the  street.  He  hoped 
she  was  not  too  good  a runner.  She 
might  even  reach  a Serviceman  and 
tell  her  story  yet. 

But  as  he  watched  she  slowed 
and  grasped  at  her  heart  as  if  in 
sudden  pain,  then  fell  headlong. 

She  would  awaken  a half  day 
later  than  Varano. 

X. 

From  his  kit  he  mixed  a color 
preparation  to  match  the  girl’s  hair 
and  sprayed  it  into  his  own.  He 
clipped  it  as  nearly  as  possible  to 
resemble  hers — a low  point  at  the 
nape  of  his  neck,  tapering  to  shorter 
length  at  his  temples. 

He  darkened  his  eyebrows  and 
applied  a thin  ridge  of  plastic  to  his 
nose  to  lessen  its  apparent  width. 
The  girl  had  a thin,  finely  shaped 
nose  and  Ketan  was  disgusted  with 
his  attempts  at  imitation.  It  would 
have  taken  a good  sculptor  many 
jdays  to  duplicate  her  finely  molded 
.-features. 

But  it  would  have  to  do.  He  re- 
placed his  materials  and  fastened 
the  compact  kit  to  the  glistening 
white  and  gold  harness  that  cinched 
him  tightly  under  the  thin  robe.  N It 
was  adjusted  to  the  maximum  size, 
but  the  girl’s  seeming  plumpness 
had  been  somewhat  deceptive,  he 
■ found. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


There  were  two  things  he  could 
not  change.  Those  were  his  voice 
and  the  color  of  his  eyes.  He’d 
have  to  take  a chance. 

He  strode  to  the  door  and  pushed 
it  open. 

The  short  flight  of  steps  led  into 
a long,  thickly  carpeted  corridor. 
Soft,  creamy  lighting  was  present 
in  the  energized  air.  Its  impact 
made  a restful  sensation  on  the 
skin. 

Doors  lined  both  sides  of  the  hall- 
way. He  stood  there  in  a momen- 
tary hesitation  about  where  he 
should  go.  He  had  to  learn  some- 
thing about  the  customs  of  the  place 
or  they  would  make  short  work  of 
discovering  his  deception. 

A door  behind  him  opened  sud- 
denly and  a white-robed  girl  hur- 
ried out.  “Come  quickly,”  she  said. 
“It’s  nearly  time  for  the  assembly. 
We’ll  be  late.” 

Ketan  nodded  and  smiled  and 
hurried  along  beside  her.  This  was 
fortunate.  He  wondered  what  the 
assembly  was. 

They  turned  a corner  and  passed 
through  wide  gold  doors  and  found 
themselves  at  the  rear  of  a small 
chamber  in  which  about  thirty 
young  women  were  gathered  in  a 
semicircle  about  a small  central  plat- 
form. 

All  were  gowned  in  immaculate 
white  robes.  The  expression  on 
their  faces  was  rapturous.  The 
gathering  made  a solemn  and  sacred 
impression.  It  almost  inspired  in 
him  a twinge  of  conscience  at  des- 
ecrating such  a place. 

But  his  remorse  was  short  lived. 
He  knew  that  all  this  was  but  trim- 


mings to  ignorant  belief  in  false 
gods.  The  sooner  it  was  torn 
asunder  and  truth  restored  the  bet- 
ter for  all — including  the  young 
women  present. 

He  took  a seat  beside  the  girl 
he  had  met  in  the  hall.  His  dis- 
guise gave  him  a moment  of 
panicky  self-confidence  in  which  he 
imagined  everyone  there  was  look- 
ing at  him  and  knew  his  sex. 

He  fought  it  down. 

An  older  woman  emerged  from 
behind  curtains  and  mounted  the 
low  platform.  She  was  magnificent 
in  thick  gold  robes  and  a crowning 
helmet  that  gleamed  with  white  and 
purple  stones.  She  glanced  around 
amid  the  instant  quiet. 

“Ladies  of  the  Temple — for  that 
is  now  your  rightful  title,”  she  said, 
“you  are  this  day  no  longer  women 
of  Kronweld.  You  belong  to  a 
new  and  larger  world,  for  which 
you  have  forsaken  forever,  the  old. 
You  belong  to  the  world  of  the  in- 
finite, a world  that  lies  on  the  very 
threshold  of  the  realm  of  the  God.” 

Ketan  squirmed.  He  wished  she 
would  say  some  words  that  had 
meaning.  But  the  girl  next  to  him 
was  ecstatic.  He  wondered  if  he 
were  missing  something  of  sig- 
nificance. 

But  his  mind  refused  to  concen- 
trate on  the  speaker’s  words.  Only 
one  thought  had  pounded  within 
him  since  he  had  entered  the  room. 
Where  was  Elta? 

Without  attracting  attention,  he 
tried  to  crane  his  neck  and  get  a 
glimpse  of  her.  This  would  be  a 
bitter  farce  if  he  didn’t  find  her. 

She  was  sitting  two  rows  in  front 


RENAISSANCE! 


S5 


of  him.  Her  eyes  were  intent  upon 
the  speaker.  She  was  drinking  in 
every  word  that  was  spoken. 

The  whole  mystery  of  everything 
that  had  happened  since  the  night 
of  his  rendezvous  at  the  Karildex 
with  the  shriveled  old  woman  burst 
upon  him  anew  in  an  overwhelming 
w’ave. 

Question  after  question  assailed 
him,  for  which  there  were  no  an- 
swers. Foremost:  Why  had  Elta 
come  here  ? Was  this  the  thing  she 
had  referred  to  when  she  had  told 
him  she  was  going  away?  It  seemed 
impossible  that  she  had  pians  to 
come  back  from  the  Temple. 

Whether  she  did  or  not,  there 
would  be  no  turning  back  for  him 
now  until  he  had  found  the  last 
secret  of  the  unholy  place. 

He  wondered  if  the  old  woman 
had  sought  him  at  the  Karildex 
again.  Would  he  ever  see  her 
again  ? 

He  tried  to  turn  his  attention 
back  to  the  woman  on  the  platform. 

“You  are  to  preside  at  the  crea- 
tion of  man,”  she  was  saying.  “To 
no  greater  task  could  you  have  dedi- 
cated your  lives.  The  work  of  the 
First  Group  and  the  Seekers  Coun- 
cil in  Kronweld  is  small  beside 
ours.” 

Suddenly  a new  and  strange  fear 
grasped  Ketan.  The  woman  meant 
what  she  said. 

It  took  him  a moment  to  grasp 
the  full  significance  of  that.  He 
fought  down  the  fear  and  told  him- 
self his  discoveries  couldn’t  be 
wrong.  He  had  the  evidence  of  the 
Bors  and  of  his  own  charts  of  the 
interior  of  the  human  body.  He 

56 


couldn’t  be  wrong. 

Yet  how  could  anyone  as  close  to 
the  charlatanism  as  she  was  speak 
as  she  was  speaking.  It  was  dif- 
ferent with  the  members  or  the 
Seekers  Council.  They  didn’t  have 
any  real  knowledge  of  the  Mystery. 
But  she  must  know — 

He  listened  abstractedly  to  her 
long  eulogy  of  the  life  of  a Lady 
of  the  Temple.  There  was  nothing 
in  it  that  gave  him  a clue.  Fler 
only  concrete  directions  were  that 
they  were  to  be  ready  to  march  to 
the  Temple  at  the  rising  of  the 
second  sun  when  the  building 
would  have  its  once  in  a tara 
opening. 

They  were  dismissed  and  went 
out  from  the  room.  Ketan  wound 
among  the  small  groups  that 
coalesced  in  knots  of  conversation 
and  sought  Elta.  She  was  not  join- 
ing any  of  the  groups  either,  and 
hurried  away.  He  caught  up  with 
her  and  spoke  urgently.  “May  I 
see  you  alone — ?” 

She  turned.  The  nearness  of 
her  brought  a tightness  to  his 
throat.  "Of  course,  Murna — ” 
Her  hand  went  to  her  throat. 
“You’re  not  Murna — Who  are 
you  ? I’ve  never  seen  you  here  be- 
fore !” 

“Please,”  he  said  urgently,  “in 
your  room?” 

Doubtfully,  she  turned  and  led 
the  way.  He  looked  back,  but  no 
one  was  following  them.  Then 
they  were  inside  the  room  and  he 
closed  the  door.  He  approached 
closer  to  her.  She  backed  in  half 
fright. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


“Look  closely,  Elta.”  * His  voice 
lowered  to  its  masculine  pitch.  “Do 
you  see  nothing  in  me  that  you  rec- 
ognize ?” 

Her  eyes  widened  in  horror. 
“Ketan—!” 

“I  had  to  come  after  you,  Elta. 
Why  have  you  done  this  insane 
thing  ?’’ 

“Me !”  she  gave  a short  despair- 
ing laugh.  “What  about  you  ? How 
did  you  get  in  here  ? What  do  you 
intend  to  do  ? Don’t  you  know  that 
if  they  found  you  here,  killing 
would  be  mild  to  what  they  would 
do  to  you?  That’s  merely  the  pen- 
alty for  one  of  the  girls  if  she 
leaves  after  taking  the  vows  and 
receiving  her  instructions.” 

“So  that’s  the  kind  of  discipline 
that’s  necessary  here.  It  must  be 
a benign  place.  I’m  going  to  ex- 
pose its  corruption  to  all  Kron- 
weld.” 

“Oh,  you  fool,  you  fool — ” Elta 
sank  wearily  on  the  bed.  “You 
don't  know  anything  about  this 
place. 

“Why  wouldn’t  you  trust  me, 
Ketan?  I told  you  I’d  come  back 
to  you  and  we’d  go  into  Dark  Land. 
Now—” 

“Back?  From  here?  Is  this 
where  you  intended  to  go  all  the 
time  ?” 

She  nodded,  her  head  bowed. 

“Why?” 

“I  can’t  tell  you  that.” 

A barrier  as  black  and  as  for- 
bidding and  as  infinite  as  the  Edge 
seemed  to  have  risen  between  them. 
There  was  nothing  Ketan  could 
think  of  to  say  in  the  face  of  its 
widening  separation  of  them.  Elta 


seemed  for  a moment  like  an  utter 
stranger.  She  could  not  be  the 
Seeker  Elta  whom  he  had  loved — 
with  whom  he  would  make  their 
companionship. 

“Now — ?”  he  said. 

A low,  bitter  sob  escaped  her. 
“Now  . . . now,  there  is  nothing. 
You  are  declassed  . . . and  the  God 
only  knows  what  more  for  coming 
here.  Hoult  would  have  killed  you 
in  Kronweld.  Now  he  has  a dou- 
ble excuse  if  you  go  back.  They 
will  hunt  us  down,  even  in  Dark 
Land — 

“But  that  is  the  only  solution. 
Escape  and  go  there.  - Tell  me  how 
you  got  in  here — we’ll  go  now,  both 
of  us.  We  can  make  it.  We’ll  leave 
all  this  behind  us  and  forget  it  for 
the  rest  of  our  lives — if  they’ll  let 
us.  You  know  Dark  Land.  Surely 
we  can  find  hiding  there  where  they 
can  never  find  us.” 

Her  eyes  were  upturned  towards 
him,  earnest,  pleading.  He  shook 
his  head. 

“It  wouldn’t  be  worth  it.  Even 
if  we  succeeded  we  would  condemn 
ourselves  to  lives  of  perpetual  fear 
and  running  from  those  we  feared 
to  fight. 

“I  think  there  are  other  lands  be- 
sides Dark  Land  and  Fire  Land, 
which  no  man  has  seen.  I think 
that  somewhere  beyond  them  is  the 
land  of  my  vision,  where  a tall,  thin 
pinnacle  rises  in  a desert  of  red  and 
white  drifting  sands.  I think  even 
that  you  may  know  where  that  land 
is.  But  regardless — that’s  where 
we’re  going.  I believe  the  secret 
of  its  location  is  in  this  Temple.” 

He  had  no  reason  for  this  last 


RENAISSANCE 


67 


statement  except  the  complete  sense 
of  clarity  and  correctness  which 
flowed  over  him  ever  since  he  had 
first  made  the  decision  to  enter  the 
Temple.  It  was  as  if  he  were  being 
drawn  along  by  an  invisible  wire 
that  signaled  when  he  was  making 
a wrong  or  a right  move. 

"I  must  find  that  pinnacle,”  he 
said,  “and  you  shall  go  with  me.” 

But  Elta’s  eyes  widened  as  they 
had  the  first  time  he  mentioned  it. 
“You  must  not  find  it,”  she  said  in 
a voice  of  terror. 

Ketan  gazed  long  and  steadily 
upon  her.  “You  know  what  is 
there.  You  know  where  that  pin- 
nacle is.” 

“No ! If  I did  I would  have  de- 
stroyed it  long  ago.  I only  know 
of  the  terrible  things  it  is  said  to 
hold.  Trust  me — if  you  won’t  take 
me  with  you  into  Dark  Land.  Go 
without  me.  Soon  I will  come  to 
you  and  then  I promise  that  never 
will  we  have  to  live  in  fear  again. 
The  Temple  will  be  destroyed,  even 
as  you  wish.  Then  I will  tell  you 
all  you  want  to  know  about  me.” 

“I  don’t  know  how  you  know  of 
these  things,  Elta,  but  if  they  are  as 
fearful  as  you  would  have  me  be- 
lieve I cannot  wait  for  you  to 
choose  a time  to  tell  me.  I must 
know  them  now.  I must  find  them 
out  for  myself.”  He  shook  his  head 
slowly.  “It  is  not  I who  does  not 
trust  you — you  do  not  trust  me 
enough  to  tell  me  what  you  know  of 
the  pinnacle — how  you  know  of  a 
thing  I have  only  seen  in  vision. 
Tell  me  what  you  know  of  the  old 
woman  who  came  to  me  at  the 
Karildex,  why  Leader  Hoult  would 

58 


kill  me  if  lie  had  the  chance.  What 
is  the  mystery  of  him  and  Teacher 
Daran — and  of  Elta?” 

She  remained  silent,  head  bowed, 
and  unmoving. 

At  the  opening  of  the  Temple  of 
Birth  every  inhabitant  of  Ivron- 
weld,  without  exception,  gathered 
in  the  semicircle  surrounding  the 
white  marble  building.  The  guard- 
ing line  of  atomic  devastation  was 
broken  down  and  armed  guards 
were  posted  before  the  single  en- 
trance to  the  Temple. 

Ketan  remembered  well  the  day 
of  his  own  emergence.  For  the 
first  time  he  saw  the  outer  world 
and  the  glowing  twin  globes  shining 
from  the  cloud-hazy  sky.  Some- 
how, he  had  known  that  it  would 
be  as  it  was,  but  still  the  impact  of 
the  terrible  reality  of  the  exterior 
world  had  been  a physical  blow. 

That  had  been  twelve  tara  be- 
fore. Since  that  day  he  had  been 
able  to  remember  absolutely  noth- 
ing that  preceded  his  entry  into 
Kronweld. 

Yet,  deep  below  the  conscious 
level  in  his  mind  was  the  conviction 
that  there  had  been  something  be- 
fore— that  he  had  not  simply  sprung 
into  existence  three  quarters  grown 
as  he  emerged  from  the  Temple. 
Something  had  been  done  to  block 
off  the  things  he  was  not  meant  to 
remember. 

He  recalled  the  things  that  he 
knew  that  day  when  he  stepped  out 
into  the  air  and  sunlight  of  the 
natural  world.  He  knew  the  lan- 
guage. He  knew  the  fundamentals 
of  Seeking.  He  knew  what  kind 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


of  a society  he  would  find  himself 
in.  He  knew  that  he  would  be  as- 
signed to  a house  of  his  own  as  a 
primary  learner  and  advance  until 
he  became  a full  Seeker,  if  he  could. 

That  much  he  knew,  but  of  the 
means  by  which  he  knew  these 
things  he  could  recall  nothing. 

He  remembered  no  part  of  the 
interior  of  the  Temple  beyond  that 
moment  when  he  stepped  through 
its  portal.  He  wondered  now  if 
any  .of  the  surroundings  would 
strike  a note  of  familiarity  within 
him. 

The  atmosphere  in  Preparation 
Center  was  tense.  It  infiltrated 
even  into  Ketan.  But  he  had  a far 
greater  reason  for  anxiety  than  any 
of  the  girls.  He  felt  certain  that 
discovery  would  mean  swift  death. 
Surging  beneath  the  surface  of 
Kronweld  were  strange,  unknown 
forces  of  which  he  had  never  con- 
ceived. Forces  that  were  merciless 
and  swift. 

And  somehow  Elta  was  ensnared 
in  their  midst.  He  felt  it  was  his 
destiny  to  destroy  those  forces — 
which  loomed  now  even  larger  and 
more  deadly  than  his  original  prob- 
lem of  overthrowing  the  system  of 
registration  for  Mysteries. 

A sudden,  resounding  blast  of 
instruments  was  heard,  penetrating 
even  the  thick  walls  of  the  Center. 
There  was  a flurry  among  the 
newly  inducted  Ladies,  and  Ketan 
found  himself  beside  Elta  in  a dou- 
ble line  before  the  great  doors  of 
the  Center. 

The  chief  Lady  of  the  Center  was 
at  the  head  of  the  column,  crowned 

RENAISSANCE 


with  the  splendor  of  her  golden 
robes. 

Slowly  the  massive  doors  swung 
outward.  There  was  a great  hush, 
oppressive  in  its  solemnity,  as  the 
column  began  its  slow  march  into 
the  daylight. 

There  was  a wide  lane  leading 
directly  from  the  Center  to  the  still 
closed  door  of  the  Temple.  Lining 
each  side  were  the  thousands  of  in- 
habitants of  Kronweld,  heads  bowed 
in  reverence  before  the  Ladies 
whose  very  footsteps  had  become 
holy  by  their  consecration. 

Ketan  felt  suddenly  and  utterly 
naked.  The  impact  of  mass  rever- 
ence convinced  him  momentarily  of 
the  fiendishness  of  his  deception. 
He  felt  a wild  urge  to  break  and 
run  through  the  vast  crowd. 

And  there  was  a pounding  fear 
in  his  heart  lest  someone  look 
closely  and  recognize  some  familiar 
feature  in  his  face.  He  kept  his 
eyes  averted  downward,  looking 
steadily  at  the  heels  of  the  woman 
in  front  of  him.  Elta,  at  his  side, 
gripped  his  hand  once  in  a gesture 
of  tender  despair. 

The  music  softly  flowing  from 
the  Temple  grew  louder  as  they 
approached  the  long  broad  flight  of 
steps  leading  upward.  At  the  top, 
the  double  column  separated,  half 
moving  to  each  side  of  the  steps, 
and  halted  there. 

A thunderous  blast  from  unseen 
trumpeters  split  the  air.  Then  si- 
lence. 

Slowly  and  ponderously,  re- 
luctant to  break  their  seal  upon  the 
Temple,  the  massive,  golden  doors 
parted. 

ss> 


Ketan  remembered  that  moment 
twelve  tara  before.  That  first  crack 
of  daylight  was  like  a revelation 
from  the  God.  Now  he  saw  un- 
numbered other  new  inhabitants 
waiting  impatiently,  fearfully,  be- 
yond those  doors.  He  saw  the  look 
of  terror  that  crossed  their  faces, 
then  they  began  to  move  trem- 
blingly into  the  light  of  the  twin 
suns. 

He  watched  them  pass  between 
the  lines  of  waiting  Ladies.  There 
was  a terrible  bravery  about  that 
moment  and  an  intense  sympathy 
went  out  from  him. 

They  took  only  a few  moments 
to  pass.  With  an  involuntary  gasp, 
Ketan  looked  up  through  the  doors. 
The  dark  hall  was  empty.  There 
were  no  more  to  come  out. 

He  looked  back  at  the  receding 
column.  There  were  not  more  than 
two  hundred  and  fifty  of  them. 

His  own  gasp  wTas  re-echoed  by 
the  low  murmur  that  began  to  swell 
from  the  watching  group.  It  was 
a murmur  of  despair  and  wonder. 
Only  two  hundred  and  fifty — 

Each  tara  the  groups  emerging 
seemed  to  become  smaller  and 
smaller,  but  this  was  the  smallest 
of  all. 

Where  would  the  reduction  end? 
Why  were  there  not  more?  No 
man  in  Kronweld  knew  the  an- 
swers. 

Now,  the  twin  lines  of  the  wait- 
ing Ladies  turned  and  advanced. 
They  converged  at  point  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  broad  doorway.  The 
doors  closed. 

Ketan  had  returned  to  the  Tem- 
ple of  Birth. 

so 


XI. 

Amid  silence  except  for  the  pad- 
ding of  their  soft  shoes  on  the  mar- 
ble floor,  they  wound  slowly  down 
a long,  curving  corridor  whose  side 
was  shaped  by  the  rotundity  of  the 
outer  wall. 

The  corridor  led  into  a small 
chamber  heavily  rugged  with 
maroon  carpet.  Faint  strains  of 
music  issued  from  unseen  sources. 

“I  leave  you  now,”  their  leader 
said,  “to  your  lives  of  service.  Dedi- 
cate your  every  thought  and  desire 
to  the  performance  of  your  duties 
well,  for  upon  you  rests  the  future 
of  man.  I leave  you  now  to  Matra, 
First  Lady  of  the  Temple  of  Birth. 
Learn  from  her — resolve,  each  of 
you,  to  be  as  great  a Lady  as  she 
has  been.” 

The  golden  robed  Lady  left  the 
room.  They  sat  in  expectant  si- 
lence. 

Before  them  was  a low  platform 
with  a dais  in  the  center.  Cur- 
tained alcoves  marked  either  side. 

There  came  a faint  rustling  of 
the  curtains  on  the  left,  and  then 
from  between  them  emerged  an  old 
woman.  Her  silver  hair  was  neatly 
bound  with  a jeweled  band  and  her 
thin  limbs  were  clad  in  white,  shin- 
ing robes. 

She  stood  a moment  glancing 
over  their  expectant  faces  as  if  with 
an  intense  hope  and  longing.  Her 
eyes  met  Ketan’s. 

At  that  instant  his  world  ex- 
ploded. 

She  was  the  old  crone  who  had 
come  to  the  Karildex  and  told  him 
he  must  slay  Leader  Hoult,  Teacher 

ASTOUNDING  SCI  ENCE- F ICT  ION 


Daran,  and  Elta, 

He  felt  a current  of  recognition 
pass  between  them.  The  corners 
of  her  mouth  turned  slightly  in  an 
enigmatic  smile,  and  her  glance 
passed  on. 

She  knew  him. 

His  breath  came  hard  and  damp 
perspiration  oozed  from  his  pores 
as  a sense  of  entrappment  flooded 
over  him. 

He  scarcely  heard  her  begin 
speaking. 

“ — e'ghty  tara  I have  been  here. 
I do  not  regret  a day  that  I have 
lost  from  the  outer  world.  My 
only  regret  is  that  I have  not  done 
my  work  well — none  of  us  ever  ful- 
fill our  dreams. 

“You  who  once  came  forth  from 
these  sacred  chambers  must  learn 
that  it  was  here  that  the  hopes  and 
ideals  and  desires  of  the  God  who 
built  Kronweld  were  planted  within 
you.  In  turn,  now  you  shall  teach 
others  as  you  were  taught. 

“You  wonder  what  is  required  of 
you — you  are  new  and  hopeful,  you 
are  eager  and  fearful.  You  shall 
know  every  emotion  that  crosses  a 
human  breast,  but  sorrow  and  heart- 
ache you  will  bear  in  disproportion- 
ate amounts. 

“It  is  your  task  first  to  learn  the 
great  things  that  have  come  down 
from  the  time  of  the  first  woman, 
and  then  to  teach  them  to  those 
who  come  unto  us. 

“All  of  you  have  wondered  where 
life  came  from,  how  it  is  created. 
That  is  one  of  the  forbidden  Mys- 
teries which  Seekers  in  Kronweld 
have  often  been  tempted  to  search 
out,  but  it  is  not  wisdom  that  they 


should  know.  Even  we  who  have 
been  blessed  to  care  for  new  life 
have  not  been  given  knowledge  of 
how  it  is  created.  That  knowledge 
is  reserved  only  for  the  God.  We 
see  the  performance  of  his  works, 
but  we  do  not  comprehend  how  they 
are  done. 

“Tomorrow,  after  you  have 
rested  and  refreshed  yourselves, 
you  shall  witness  the  creation  of 
life." 

Fearful  doubts  began  to  flow 
through  Ketan.  Not  a shred  of 
evidence,  not  a clue  to  tell  him  that 
he  was  right.  What  if  his  beliefs 
and  theories  were  a horrible  blas- 
phemy as  the  Council  had  judged? 

He  might  never  know.  Matra’s 
eyes  roved  over  the  assembled 
Ladies  but  ever  they  returned  to 
him,  boring  into  him  as  if  trying 
to  establish  unspoken  communica- 
tion. Communication  for  what? 
He  could  not  tell  if  her  glance  was 
one  of  condemnation  or  not. 

Now  a needle-sharp  sadness 
came  into  her  voice. 

“I  will  not  be  with  you  long,” 
she  continued.  “Perhaps  you  are 
the  last  group  of  new  Ladies  that 
I shall  welcome  into  the  Temple. 
If  so,  I give  you  my  last  command; 
You  must  do  your  work  far  better 
than  your  predecessors  have  done. 
Perhaps  some  of  you  may  know  it 
already;  some  of  you  may  not. 
Kronweld  is  failing.  Don’t  let  that 
shock  you.  So  slowly  that  you  who 
have  lived  there  your  short  lives 
may  not  have  seen  it  Kronweld  is 
retrograding,  going  into  the  past. 
No  more  are  there  great  fearless 
Seekers  like  the  mighty  Igon  who 


RENAISSANCE 


61 


was  the  last  of  the  great  ones. 

“Why  this  is  so,  I do  not  know. 
Nor  do  I know  why  the  creation  of 
new  life  is  less  with  each  tara  that 
passes.  The  group  that  I emerged 
with  numbered  over  two  thousand. 
You  saw  those  who  came  forth  to- 
day. You  must  find  why  this  is  so 
or  Kronweld  is  doomed.  I hope 
there  may  be  one  within  this  room 
who  will  find  the  reason  for  this. 

“You  may  go  now.  An  attendant 
for  each  of  you  is  outside  in  the 
corridor.  You  will  be  shown  to 
your  rooms  and  tomorrow  taken 
to  the  chamber  of  birth.” 

They  arose,  silent  and  somewhat 
shaken  by  the  intensity  of  her  al- 
most inaudible  speech. 

Ketan  turned  with  the  group  and 
sought  the  door.  Elta,  beside  him, 
felt  the  tenseness  of  his  body  and 
looked  inquiringly  into  his  face. 

He  knew  that  he  would  not  get 
to  the  door.  Halfway  there,  he 
realized  the  ancient  was  speaking 
again.  Someone  plucked  his  sleeve 
and  he  turned. 

“You  who  call  yourself  Murna — ■ 
1 would  speak  with  you,”  Matra 
said. 

He  paused  and  turned.  She  was 
looking  at  him  again  with  those 
eyes  he  knew  could  read  his 
thoughts.  Elta  went  on  with  the 
rest. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  the  full 
realization  of  panic  broke  upon 
him.  Matra  must  know  that  Elta 
was  there  in  that  room.  And  she 
had  said  that  Elta  must  die. 

He  couldn’t  let  her  go  out  that 
door,  out  of  his  sight.  Had  she 

*2 


known  that  by  coming  to  the  Tem- 
ple she  was  putting  herself  in  the 
old  woman’s  power? 

There  was  nothing  he  could  do. 
The  others  were  beginning  to  look 
curiously  at  him  as  he  stood  in  panic 
of  indecision.  He  turned  slowly 
and  moved  towards  the  platform 
with  its  low  dais. 

When  they  were  all  gone,  Matra’s 
eyes  still  surveyed  him,  boring  be- 
neath the  disguise,  stripping  away 
the  false  plastic,  baring  his  identity 
before  her. 

“I  had  not  thought  to  see  you 
again  so  soon,  Ketan.” 

He  stood  still.  The  frozen  air 
encased  him  in  chill.  Where  had 
he  blundered?  She  could  not  have 
recognized  him  unless  she  had 
known — 

For  a long  instant  he  gazed 
steadily  into  her  eyes.  “I  wanted 
to  finish  our  conversation,”  he  said. 
“You  left — rather  suddenly  the 
other  night.” 

She  was  taken  aback  momentar- 
ily. Then  she  smiled  and  shook 
her  head.  “You  are  lying.  You 
did  not  know  I was  here.  Tell  me, 
why  have  you  come?” 

“I  have  come  for  the  secret  of 
life!  You  and  all  those  like  you 
have  withheld  the  secret  long 
enough.  Man  must  have  it,  or  he 
will  die.  When  I have  found  that 
secret  I shall  destroy  you  and  your 
Temple  and  all  that  it  represents.” 

“That  is  good,”  she  said.  “I  was 
sure  that  you  had  come  that  far. 
Come  closer,  and  sit  here  beside 
me,  and  I will  tell  you  what  I failed 
to  tell  you  before.  I planned  to 
come  again  to  the  Karilde. r.  It  is 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE -FICTION 


better  that  you  have  come  here. 

“It  will  not  be  necessary  for  you 
to  do  what  I ask.  When  I learned 
you  were  in  Preparation  Center,  I 
gave  your  task  to  another.” 

“You  mean — ?” 

“Daran  is  already  dead.  Hoult — 
by  this  time  tomorrow.” 

Revulsion  engulfed  him  in  smoth- 
ering nausea.  A man  killed — he 
had  not  realized  what  it  meant  be- 
fore, even  when  Elta  spoke  of 
Hoult’s  intent  on  his  life.  In  three 
hundred  tara  no  man  had  been  de- 
liberately killed  in  Kronweld. 

Elta. 

“We  shall  take  care  of  Elta 
here,”  the  old  woman  was  saying. 
“She—” 

“Why,  you — !”  Ketan  leaped 
up.  His  hands  reached  for  the 
skinny  wrinkled  throat.  “If  you 
touch  her,  I’ll — ” 

With  amazing  agility,  Matra 
sprang  away  from  his  grasp.  “You 
fool,”  she  raged.  “What  can  you 
do?”  Then  she  calmed.  “You  did 
not  come  well  prepared  in  case  your 
disguise  was  penetrated,  did  you, 
Ketan  ? 

“But  don't  worry.  I know  how 
you  feel.  Igon — But  when  you 
have  heard  my  story,  you  will  have 
a change  of  mind.  Listen. 

“Imagine  another  world  sur- 
rounding us  on  all  sides,  a world  of 
people  like  us  who  could  see  and 
know  of  us,  yet  couldn’t  be  seen. 
A world  of  which  we  had  abso- 
lutely no  knowledge. 

“Such  a world  actually  exists, 
Ketan.  It  knows  of  us,  has  known 
of  us  for  more  than  a hundred  tara. 
All  the  results  of  our  Seeking  are 


taken  to  that  world  and  used  for 
the  benefit  of  those  who  will  eventu- 
ally destroy  us.  We  have  been  per- 
mitted to  live  only  so  long  as  we 
have  useful  knowledge  to  supply  to 
this  surrounding  world.  Now, 
there  is  only  one  thing  they  want, 
our  knowledge  of  atomic  forces. 
So  far,  they  have  not  obtained  it 
because  their  emissaries  among  us 
have  not  been  able  to  understand  or 
grasp  it.  They  are  of  a very  low 
intelligence,  generally. 

“But  now,  there  has  come  one 
of  them  into  Kronweld  with  intel- 
ligence sufficient  to  take  even  that 
knowledge  back.  Kronweld  is 
about  to  be  betrayed  and  destruc- 
tion loosed  upon  us. 

“That  emissary  is  Elta.” 

The  hypnotic  rasping  of  the  old 
woman’s  voice  drilled  itself  into 
Ketan’s  mind  and  forged  a place 
there  that  told  him  she  was  speak- 
ing the  truth. 

But  the  rest  of  his  brain  retched 
out  the  thought.  Elta — ! No — 
there  was  no  part  of  him  that  could 
believe  she  was  member  of  a mythi- 
cal race  from  a mythical  world  that 
hovered  over  Kronweld  with  death 
and  destruction. 

“I  do  not  believe  you.” 

“No — of  course  you  don’t — yet. 
But  I shall  show  you.  I shall  show 
you  in  a way  that  you  can  never 
disbelieve ! Then  you  shall  return 
to  Kronweld  like  an  avenging  brand 
to  root  out  the  festering  rot  of  de- 
struction that  hides  there.  I know 
you,  Ketan.  I have  what  it  will 
take  to  convince  you. 

“Until  you  have  seen,  Elta  shall 
be  spared.” 


RENAISSANCE 


63 


Quite  surely,  he  knew  that  what 
she  said  was  true.  She  did  possess 
whatever  facts  would  be  needed  to 
convince  him  of  what  she  said. 

He  was  aghast  at  the  significance 
of  it.  A world  about  Kronweld, 
she  said.  An  invisible,  spying,  de- 
structive world.  And  this  one  lone 
withered  husk  of  humanity  the  sole 
agent  against  it. 

She  turned  upon  him  suddenly. 
“Go  to  your  room  now.  At  once. 
You  will  be  shown  your  duties  by 
your  personal  guide.” 

He  turned.  Behind  him,  a hard, 
sharp-faced  woman  had  entered  and 
eyed  him  disinterestedly. 

“Pardon,  Matra,  I thought  I had 
lost  my  student.” 

“It  is  quite  all  right.  Murna 
stopped  to  ask  a question.  I am 
pleased  with  her.  She  is  earnest.” 

Ketan  turned  and  followed  the 
frozen-faced  guide  out  the  door. 
He  looked  back  once,  but  Matra  had 
vanished. 

They  turned  from  the  large  cor- 
ridor into  a smaller,  coolly  lighted 
passageway  lined  with  doors.  They 
halted  before  one. 

"This  will  be  yours — for  the  rest 
of  your  life.”  There  was  a half 
gloating  in  the  woman’s  voice. 

They  entered  and  she  indicated  a 
closet  where  a supply  of  robes  and 
harness  were  stored.  “You  may 
remove  your  induction  robes.  You’ll 
never  need  them  again.  Most  of 
the  Ladies  keep  them  stored  for 
sentiment.  Here  are  your  robes 
for  relaxing — and  here  are  those 
for  duty  in  training,  for  watching, 
and. for  teaching.  Make  yourself 

#4 


acquainted  with  the.  rooms. 

“My  name  is  Nelan.  I’ll  call  for 
you  tomorrow  when  it  is  time  for 
you  to  go  to  the  chamber  of  birth.” 
She  paused  with  her  hand  on  the 
door  and  turned  back.  “What  was 
it  you  asked  Matra?” 

Ketan  turned  sharply  to  the  im- 
pudent guide.  Did  she  know,  too? 
“Nothing  that  concerns  you,”  he 
said. 

“I  only  want  to  help.  Matra  is 
old.  She  will  not  be  with  us  long. 
Then  when  she  is  gone  we  will  have 
a glorious  new  rule  under  Anetel. 
There  are  many  things  you  must 
learn,”  she  added  meaningly.  “I 
only  want  to  help.” 

Her  gaze  lingered  upon  him.  She 
turned  abruptly  and-  was  gone. 

Ketan  was  left  with  an  undefined 
sense  of  conflicting  forces  within 
the  Temple  itself  as  he  gazed  at 
the  closed  door.  The  guide,  Nelan, 
had  exhibited  an  unmistakable  an- 
tagonism towards  Matra. 

He  shrugged  it  off.  There  were 
other  problems,  too  important  for 
him  to  concern  himself  with  petty 
schisms  in  the  Temple  organization. 
He  sank  deeply  in  a soft  chair  and 
uncoiled  the  tenseness  that  pervaded 
every  muscle  of  his  body.  The  lack 
of  sleep  and  the  bewildering  forces 
he  had  perceived  swirling  in  intan- 
gible patterns  about  him  and  about 
all  mankind  during  the  past  three 
days  had  drained  his  energies. 

The  chair  was  equipped  with  both 
entertainment  and  refreshment 
panels.  He  selected  light  food  and 
drink  which  swung  out  on  a shin- 
ing tray  and  elevated  to  the  proper 
level  before  him.  He  wondered 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


what  the  food  was  as  he  tasted  it. 
New  and  untried  foods  had  long 
ago  ceased  to  surprise  him  since  the 
Food  Center  produced  a new  crea- 
tion regularly  every  tenth  of  a tar  a. 
This  was  exceptionally  good,  how- 
ever. If  he  had  been  outside  the 
Temple,  he  would  have  been  moved 
to  recommend  that  it  be  rated  a 
permanent  item.  If  it  did  not  ob- 
tain enough  recommendations,  it 
would  be  abandoned  forever  and  the 
Center  would  go  on  to  new  and 
endless  creations. 

He  inspected  the  titles  of  music 
on  the  other  panel  and  noted  with 
a start  that  many  of  them  had  been 
produced  in  Kronweld  only  re- 
cently. That  meant  there  was  regu- 
lar exchange  between  the  Temple 
and  the  city,  even  as  was  implied 
by  the  visit  of  Matra  to  the  Karil- 
dex. 

Music  began  to  flow  into  the 
room  as  he  made  a selection.  He 
settled  his  body  lower  in  the  chair 
and  abandoned  his  mind  to  idle 
scrutiny  of  the  compartment. 

It  was  designed  with  the  ultimate 
of  luxury  that  the  skills  of  Kron- 
weld were  capable  of  producing. 
No  Seeker  on  the  Council  itself, 
or  in  the  First  Group  could  obtain 
more  of  comfort  and  expensive  sur- 
roundings than  Ketan  found  him- 
self in  possession  of. 

There  were  no  natural  windows, 
of  course,  but  compact  energizers 
threw  a sheet  of  luminous  air 
against  the  ceiling  and  spread  a 
soft,  compelling  glow  over  the  com- 
partment. Ketan  reached  out  and 
turned  the  control  switch.  The 
glow  slowly  shifted  from  its  restful 


cream  to  a cool  green  and  through 
a quiet  blue  to  violent  red  and  crim- 
son shades.  He  brought  it  back  to 
light  green  and  lay  back  in  the 
chair. 

How  long  he  slept  he  didn’t 
know.  But  when  he  awoke  he  was 
refreshed  though  stiff  in  his  back 
and  shoulders. 

He  rose  and  shifted  the  lights  to 
bright  blue-white  glowing.  He 
shrugged  out  of  the  induction  robes 
he  still  wore,  with  a grotesquely  un- 
feminine motion.  Across  the  room 
the  reflector  surface  gave  him  back 
the  image  of  his  woman  form. 

He  grimaced  but  stepped  closer 
to  inspect  his  job  of  sculptoring  and 
see  if  the  plastic  were  holding  up. 
He  inspected  his  face  and  was 
thankful  that  he  had  submitted 
early  to  permanent  removal  of  his 
facial  hair.  Without  such,  his  dis- 
guise would  surely  have  been  hope- 
less. 

Most  of  the  men  of  Kronweld 
welcomed  the  removal,  but  occa- 
sionally some  Seeker  retained  it  as 
a curious  mark  of  distinction — or 
perversion. 

Assured  that  his  sculptoring  was 
still  intact,  he  searched  for  the 
spray  room  and  was  about  to  step 
under  the  shower  of  chemical 
cleanser  and  invigorator  when  he 
looked  down  as  his  body  and 
laughed  aloud.  A lot  of  invigorat- 
ing he  would  get  from  spraying  the 
layer  of  plastic.  But  he  stepped  in 
from  force  of  habit  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  how  much  actually 
penetrated  the  porous  material. 

He  stepped  out  and  dried  before 
the  warm  flow  of  air  that  fanned 


RENAISSANCE 


65 


over  him.  He  dressed  then  in  the 
robes  the  guide  had  indicated  would 
be  proper  for  the  day  and  sat  down 
at  the  larger  refreshment  panel  for 
a full  and  more  diverse  meal. 

His  mind  still  refused  to  register 
any  definite  familiarity  with  the 
surroundings.  Yet  there  began  to 
be  insistent  tuggings  as  if  from  a 
dream  that  could  not  be  recalled. 

And  somehow,  these  tuggings  of 
mind  centered  about  the  ancient, 
Matra.  He  knew  he  had  never  seen 
her  before  in  his  life — as  far  as 
he  could  remember-— except  for  the 
night  at  the  Karildex.  But  the  im- 
age of  her  face  drew'  him  more  per- 
sistently each  moment. 

Probably  he  had  seen  her  before 
he  had  emerged  into  Kronweld. 
Perhaps  some  strange  bond  had 
been  established  between  them.  It 
seemed  fantastic,  but  so  did  her 
conversation  of  the  day  before.  So 
did  everything  that  had  occurred 
since  he  met  her  that  night  alone. 

Sudden  chimings  of  a hidden  bell 
startled  ’ him  as  he  ate.  Then  a 
voice  spoke  from  the  same  unseen 
source. 

“The  new  section  of  Ladies  will 
assemble  in  the  corridor  at  once, 
prepared  for  admission  to  the  cham- 
ber of  birth.” 

He  hurriedly  gulped  the  re- 
mainder of  his  food,  adjusted  his 
garb  to  what  he  presumed  was  the 
proper  fit  and  brushed  his  hair 
smooth. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
out. 

Already,  most  of  the  others  were 
at  attention  before  the  doors  of 

66 


their  compartments.  Nolan  was 
waiting  for  him.  She  offered  a nod 
of  expressionless  greeting  and  re- 
mained silent.  A column  of  march- 
ing Ladies  was  advancing  down  the 
hall.  As  they  passed,  each  pair 
standing  by  the  doors  joined  them. 

Ivetan  could  not  quell  the  pound- 
ing within  his  chest  nor  the  flush 
that  suffused  his  features.  The 
climax  of  his  tarn  of  Seeking  and 
hoping  was  about  to  come.  He  was 
to  learn  the  truth  of  the  secrets  he 
had  sought  for  so  many  tara-— to 
witness  at  last  the  creation  of  life. 

But  there  was  more  than  excite- 
ment. There  was  dismay  and  fear 
mingled  in  his  emotions.  Every 
sign,  every  indication  pointed  to 
something  far  different  from  the 
thing  he  had  imagined  the  creation 
of  life  to  be. 

He  had  seen  no  sign  of  a single 
man  being  present  in  the  Temple — 
except  himself.  How,  then,  did  life 
come  into  being?  Had  some  in- 
credible means  been  produced  by 
Seeking  to  accomplish  it  by  other 
factors. 

The  column  came  abreast  of  him. 
He  and  Nelan  joined  in.  Her  eyes 
searched  anxiously  for  Elta.  He 
had  not  discovered  where  her  as- 
signed compartment  was.  Now  he 
saw  her  a dozen  doors  ahead  of 
him.  She  looked  slim  and  decepr 
lively  fragile  in  the  robes  she  now 
w'ore.  They  wrere  more  drab  than 
the  induction  robes,  but  they 
seemed  to  heighten,  rather  than  de- 
crease the  loveliness  of  her. 

His  hungry  eyes  tried  to  attract 
her  glance,  but  she  did  not  see  him 
as  she  and  her  companion  went  to 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


the  rear  of  the  column. 

They  wi-und  through  labyrinthine 
halls.  Once,  he  caught  the  sound 
of  a pain  cry  far  away,  and  all  eyes 
turned  towards  it  momentarily — 
and  forgot  it.  But  something  hard 
congealed  within  Ketan. 

lie  remembered  the  creation  of 
new  life  by  the  Bors — 

Abruptly,  they  came  to  a dead 
end.  They  halted  while  a guide 
pressed  a lock  button.  Thick,  pon- 
derous doors  slid  aside  with  re- 
luctant inertia.  Ketan  puzzled  at 
the  massive  construction.  As  he 
passed  through,  he  saw  they  were 
more  than  half  his  height  in  thick- 
ness. 

With  fearful  expectancy  the  new 
Ladies  gazed  into  the  chamber  re- 
vealed before  them. 

Dull  green  glow  illumined  the 
utter  barrenness  of  the  place.  There 
was  only  dead,  stifling  silence. 

The  chamber  was  shaped  like  a 
quarter  of  a sphere  in  miniature  of 
the  Temple  itself.  Ketan  sensed 
that  they  were  at  the  very  core  of 
the  building. 

But  there  was  nothing  within  the 
chamber.  No — his  eyes  adjusted 
to  the  dim  glow  and  he  saw  two 
figures  silent  and  statuesque  seated 
before  a niche  in  the  flat  wall. 

The  niche  was  a shallow,  semi- 
circular opening  no  higher  than  a 
man.  Dark  shadows  lay  in  its 
depths.  The  two  immobile  girls  did 
not  turn  nor  glance  about.  Their 
staring  gaze  remained  firmly  fixed 
upon  the  niche. 

There  was  one  other  figure 
within  the  room.  It  stood  motion- 
less and  alone  in  the  exact  center, 


watching  the  group.  It  was  Matra. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  glow  out  from 
the  depths  of  her  shrunken  face 
with  more  brightness  than  the  dull 
illumination  of  the  chamber. 

With  a jerky  motion  of  her  arm 
she  thrust  a finger  out  straight  and 
pointed  to  a low  marble  bench  at 
the  back,  curved  wall  of  the  room, 
facing  the  waiters  who  sat  before 
the  niche. 

They  filed  slowly  to  their  place, 
hardly  breathing  to  break  the  still- 
ness. They  sat  down  and  there  was 
— nothing. 

Ketan's  mind  spun  upon  its  own 
axis  in  turmoil,  but  it  could  get  no 
grip  on  any  factor  of  the  surround- 
ings. He  did  not  know  what  he 
had  expected  to  see.  Vague  visions 
of  a superb  and  glistening  Seeker's 
laboratory  greater  than  his  own  hid- 
den workshop  had  been  in  the  back 
of  his  mind.  But  this — this  barren 
chamber.  What  could  it  have  to  do 
with  the  creation  of  life? 

There  was  nothing  but  silence, 
a queer  suspension  of  life  within 
that  chamber,  as  if  the  whole  ener- 
gies of  life  had  paused  to  gather 
their  forces  for  some  colossal  de- 
monstration. 

Ketan  felt  it.  He  knew  the 
others  sensed  it  too,  a tangible, 
physical  demonstration.  But  what 
it  was,  he  could'  not  guess. 

He  was  almost  in  the  center  of 
the  arc  of  the  bench.  He  could 
peer  into  the  depths  of  the  niche, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  see. 

There  was  nothing — only  wait- 
ing. 

The  girls  shifted  uneasily  as  their 
muscles  began  to  cramp  and  ache 


RBS.1  ISSA.VCE 


AST— 3H 


67 


from  the  rigidity  of  their  posture 
on  the  uncomfortable  stone  bench. 
But  the  two  watchers  before  the 
niche  had  never  moved  since  the 
group  entered,  though  they  sat  on 
tiny  stone  pillars,  backless  and 
•formless. 

There  was  a low  chuckling  that 
filled  the  room  like  an  eerie  far 
away  screeching.  They  looked 
about.  Matra  was  trembling  with 
her  own  bitter  humor. 

“You'll  learn  patience,  my 
Ladies.  There  will  be  days  when 
you  will  sit  alone  with  endless  won- 
der and  pray  to  the  God  that  he 
will  send  new  life,  that  Kronweld 
has  not  yet  come  to  its  end.  But 
that  end  will  come — unless  you  find 
a way  to  prevent  it.  Half  the  halls 
and  chambers  of  this  Temple  are 
^barren  and  unused.  They  have  not 

68 


been  opened  for  more  tara  than  half 
the  Ladies  of  the  Temple  can  re- 
member. Learn  patience,  my 
Ladies. 

“Perhaps  it  will  be  one  of  you 
who  waits  at  the  last  in  this  cham- 
ber before  the  dust  grows  thick 
and  the  doors  are  sealed  forever 
because  the  God  withholds  life!” 

A chill  trembled  in  the  air  and 
settled  upon  them.  The  scent  of 
death  was  an  astringent  upon  their 
souls. 

They  sat  in  wonder  and  dismay, 
hopeful  at  first  for  some  strange 
miracle  to  take  place  before  their 
eyes,  watching  the  mysterious  niche 
with  straining  gaze. 

Then,  at  last,  aching  and  weary, 
they  began  to  pray  that  the  useless 
vigil  might  end  and  they  be  allowed 
to  go  back  to  their  compartments. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Ketan,  perhaps,  was  the  first  to 
see  it. 

He  stared  with  hypnotic  attention 
into  the  black  depths  of  the  niche. 
But  those  depths  were  no  longer 
black.  With  a pulsing  like  that  of 
the  night  sky  there  was  a sudden 
flame  of  color.  Violent,  tearing, 
purple  light  that  flashed  over  the 
walls  of  the  chamber  in  hideous 
garishness. 

It  died  slowly,  and  when  it  was 
gone  they  could  not  see.  Then  it 
rose  again,  swimming  up  from  the 
depths  of  the  spectrum  below  the 
infrared,  bursting  through  a cres- 
cendo of  light  to  blind  them  with 
radiation  beyond  the  violet. 

The  two  watchers  had  leaped  to 
their  feet,  shielding  their  eyes,  and 
stood  tensely  before  the  chaotic  dis- 
play. Ketan  stole  a half  blinded 
glance  at  Matra.  Even  she  was 
trembling  visibly  at  the  phenome- 
non. He  wondered  what  cataclysm 
was  upon  them. 

One  of  the  new  girls  screamed. 

And  suddenly  the  flame  split.  In 
its  center  was  blackness.  The 
blackness  spread,  and  they  felt  as 
if  unseen  hands  had  grasped  the 
entire  chamber  twisting  and  turn- 
ing it— 

The  end  came  suddenly.  The 
flame  exploded  into  blackness  and 
the  twisting,  tearing  hands  restored 
the  chamber  to  a dully  lit  room  full 
of  terrified  and  crying  Ladies. 

But  the  two  watchers  and  Matra 
were  huddled  about  the  little  plat- 
form before  the  niche.  A new 
sound  rose,  a tiny  crying  sound 
that  echoed  the  fear  and  terror  that 
filled  the  chamber  of  birth. 


One  of  the  watchers  turned.  In 
her  arms  was  a tiny,  squirming  ani- 
mal form.  Slowly,  like  a dream  of, 
vast  terror,  realization  broke  upon* 
their  minds.  That  form  was  a di- 
minutive human  being..  They  had 
witnessed  the  creation  of  life. 

XII. 

“Human  life  is  helpless  at  its 
creation,”  the  lecturer  said.  “It 
cannot  feed  or  walk  or  make  any 
but  involuntary  movements.  It  has 
no  intelligent  means  of  communica-' 
tion.”  * 

The  group  sat  in  a lecture  hall 
following  the  experiences  in  the 
chamber  of  birth.  The  faces  of  the 
girls  about  him  showed  Ketan  the 
effect  of  the  shock  they  had  re- 
ceived. Three  of  them  had  fainted 
at  the  horrible  ugliness  of  the  tiny 
animal  on  finally  realizing  that  it 
was  a human  being.  The  rest  had 
turned  pale  and  sick  with  uncom-' 
prehension.  He  doubted  that 
many  of  them  actually  believed  that 
they  had  once  looked  like  that. 

The  buxom  lecturer  held  up  a 
plastic  model  of  the  infant  man. 
“There  is,  fortunately,  one  func- 
tion of  which  all  are  created  ca- 
pable. That  is  the  ability  to  take 
food  when  properly  presented.  For 
this  we  use  a special  device.  It  is  a 
bottle  filled  with  liquid  food  and 
fitted  with  a flexible  tip  in  which  is 
a small  hole.  An  automatic  mo- 
tion of  the  infant’s  lips  can  draw 
the  liquid  through  the  hole.  In 
this  manner  life  is  preserved  until 
more  efficient  intake  can  be  accom- 
plished. Is  there  any  question?’ 


RENAISSANCE 


69 


There  was  none.  A dull  in- 
sensibility had  settled  upon  the 
'minds  of  most  members  of  the 
group,  which  would  not  be  dispelled 
for  days. 

j “That  is  all  for  today,  then,” 
said  the  lecturer.  “You  will  pro- 
ceed to  the  next  compartment 
where  the  successive  stage  of  devel- 
opment will  be  demonstrated.” 

From  a wide  doorway  they  were 
shown  the  room  in  which  tara  old 
i beings  wTere  learning  to  walk.  The 
Ladies  could  not  refrain  from 
breaking  out  in  unrestrained  laugh- 
ter at  the  grotesque  actions  of  the 
little  men  and  women, 
t But  after  a moment’s  laughter, 
something  halted  them.  They 
looked  down  upon  the  helpless 
creatures  and  a sense  of  compassion 
filled  them.  Even  Ketan  felt  it  ex- 
tending from  him  towards  the  tiny, 
misshapen  beings  who  would  some 
day  grow  into  perfection. 

The  instructor  nodded  with  ap- 
proval and  smiled  as  the  girls  ad- 
vanced hesitantly  towards  the  babies 
and  gave  them  a hand. 

From  there  they  passed  on  to 
other  compartments  where  larger 
children  were  engaged  in  learning 
to  use  their  arms  and  legs  and  de- 
velop skills.  In  others,  they  were 
learning  language  and  the  funda- 
mentals of  Seeking.  On  the  top 
level  of  the  Temple  were  those  who 
were  prepared  to  leave  and  emerge 
into  Kronweld  the  next  tara. 

There,  it  was  explained  to  them 
how  a means  of  influencing  the 
memories  of  those  who  emerged 
was  accomplished  through  memory 
domination.  This  was  done  to  pre- 

70 


serve  the  secrets  of  the  Temple  and 
its  sanctity  among  the  inhabitants 
of  Kronweld. 

Surging,  whipping  tentacles  of 
memory  tried  to  find  a grip  amid 
these  scenes,  but  all  memory  of  hav- 
ing passed  through  these  stages  of 
existence  were  only  wistful  shad- 
ows in  Ketan' s mind. 

Alone,  in  his  compartment  at  the 
end  of  the  day’s  tour  through  the 
Temple,  Ketan  knew  he  was  no 
nearer  the  solution  of  the  Mystery 
of  the  Temple  than  when  he  had 
first  emerged  from  it  himself. 

For  a time  the  strange  baffling 
forces  he  had  witnessed  in  the 
chamber  of  birth  had  confused  him. 
Now  he  saw  clearly  that  they  were 
only  the  mask  to  a still  deeper  mys- 
tery. Life  was  not  created  by  those 
flaming  fires.  Such  a thing  was  a 
grotesque  farce. 

Where,  then,  did  the  creation  of 
life  take  place?  How  could  life 
even  be  present  in  the  midst  of 
those  flaming  lights?  Was  all  he 
had  seen  merely  a half -knowledge 
which  was  reserved  for  the  new- 
est Ladies  while  the  older  ones  were 
partakers  of  greater  Mysteries? 

He  determined  that  there  was 
one  ivay  only  of  finding  out.  That 
was  from  Matra.  He  felt  confi- 
dent that  she  would  ask  him  to 
come  to  her  again.  And  when  she 
did  he  would  find  the  answer  to 
these  questions  if  he  had  to  choke 
it  out  of  her  skinny  throat  with  his 
own  hands. 

He  wished  he  could  see  Elta  and 
talk  with  her.  He  was  more  than 
ever  puzzled  by  her  deliberate  com- 

A STO  UNDIN  G SCIENCE-FICTION 


ing  here.  He  could  see  no  purpose 
in  it,  especially  when  she  knew  of 
Matra's  enmity  towards  her.  It 
was  conceivable  that  she  had  come 
to  attempt  an  understanding  with 
Matra,  hut  again  Ketan  was  baffled 
by  a stone  wall  of  ignorance.  What 
understanding  was  necessary  be- 
tween them?  • 

Who  were  the  Statists? 

Ketan’s  guide,  Nelan,  was  more 
a guardian  than  a guide,  it  seemed 
to  Ketan.  She  attached  herself 
to  him  as  soon  as  he  left  his  com- 
partment and  left  him  only  as  he 
returned  to  it.  He  was  sure  her 
duties  did  not  call  for  this  close 
observation.  He  noticed,  however, 
that  many  of  the  others  were  treat- 
ing their  student  Ladies  similarly. 

She  spoke  at  midday  meal  several 
days  later.  “Are  you  growing  ac- 
customed to  your  life  with  us?” 
Her  attempt  at  a friendly  smile  was 
grotesque. 

“I  like  it,”  Ketan  lied.  “It’s  the 
most  sacred  life  a woman  could 
live.” 

“You  are  right.”  Nelan  nodded. 
And  Ketan  noticed  now  that  there 
were  a half  dozen  others  crowded 
around  as  if  assenting. 

“But  that  ^proves  one  thing,” 
Nelan  went  on.  “Our  position 
should  entitle  us  to  the  best  of  the 
possible  compensations  in  life.  We 
deserve  many  of  the  comforts  and 
liberties  of  life  that  we  couid  en- 
joy  here  but  don’t  have.  It  should 
be  our  right  to  possess  them.” 

“That’s  right,”  another,  older 
woman  nodded.  “Matra  has  never 
cared  much  about  us  having  con- 

RENAISSANCE 


veniences  and  comforts  in  our  lives. 
She  always  insisted  so  much  on  de- 
votion to  duty  that  we  had  scarcely 
time  to  live.” 

“Devotion  to  duty  is  our  primary 
objective  in  life,”  Nelan  pointed 
out  solemnly.  “But  we  have  a 
right  to  ask  for  those  things  that 
we  deserve.  There  is  a sure  way  to 
get  them.” 

Ketan  wondered  what  more  they 
could  want.  There  was  more  lux- 
ury of  living  in  the  Temple  than 
he  had  ever  dreamed  of  in  his  own 
social  statis  in  Kronweld.  He  won- 
dered where  all  this  was  leading  to. 

“We  need  your  help,  the  help  of 
all  you  younger  Ladies,”  someone 
else  spoke  directly  to  Ketan.  “Ane- 
tel  will  get  them  for  us  if  we  sup- 
port her.” 

“What  are  you  talking  about  ?” 
Ketan  demanded. 

“Matra  is  old,”  Nelan  said.  “She 
will  soon  die.  One  of  us  will  have 
to  be  prepared  to  take  her  place. 
Her  successor  will  be  chosen  by 
common  consent.  Most  of  us  have 
decided  in  favor  of  Anetel.  She 
is  the  natural  one  for  the  place. 
She  will  build  a new  era  of  prog- 
ress for  the  Temple  of  Birth.  The 
new  born  will  emerge  into  Kron- 
weld far  more  capable  of  taking 
their  proper  places  there. 

“And  Anetel  will  see  that  condi- 
tions within  the  Temple — among 
the  ranks  of  the  Ladies — will  be 
greatly  improved.  We  will  have 
better  living  quarters,  more  free- 
dom to  enjoy  our  existence  and 
compensate  for  the  things  we  have 
given  up.  Doesn’t  that  sound  de- 
sirable ?” 

it 


Ketan  nodded.  “Very  desirable.” 

They  smiled  upon  him.  “Then 
you  will  assist  us  in  supporting 
Anetel  ?” 

“Yes.” 

They  smiled  more  and  remained 
with  him  throughout  the  meal. 

Idealism. 

The  word  churned  bitterly  in 
Ketan’s  mind.  So  this  was  the 
holy,  sacred  Temple  of  Birth — and 
these  were  the  unselfish,  sacrificing, 
sacrosanct  Ladies  who  devoted  their 
lives  to  the  high  things  of  existence. 
These  petty,  mean-minded  old 
women  who  harped  about  in  cliques 
groveling  for  the  minor  advantages 
of  prestige  and  rights  within  the 
Temple. 

Ketan  wondered  what  the  starry- 
eyed  girls  thought  now — those  who 
had  listened  so  raptly  in  Prepara- 
tion Center.  They  probably  grew 
hardened  as  the  tara  passed. 

But  gone  was  any  sympathy  he 
had  momentarily  possessed  or  any 
doubts  he  had  held  about  desecrat- 
ing the  place. 

Ketan  had  never  spoken  to  Ane- 
tel directly.  He  had  seen  her  only 
as  he  passed  in  the  halls  and  cor- 
ridors. 

She  was  tall  and  blonde  and 
stately,  with  finespun  golden  hair. 
Her  skill  with  the  new  born  was 
unmatched.  Her  apparent  cold- 
ness at  a distance  was  deceptive.  In 
direct  speech — which  was  as  fre- 
quent as  necessary,  and  no  more — 
her  personality  was  like  liquid 
warmth  flowing  over  her  listener. 
She  put  at  ease  the  most  timid  of 
the  Ladies  when  she  chose  to  speak 
to  them.  Those  repelled  by  the 

72 


lined  and  shrunken  features  of 
Matra  were  easily  nurtured  by  Ane- 
tel's  presence. 

She  was  not  small  and  insinuat- 
ing, nor  was  she  powerful  and 
brusque.  She  did  not  gather  with 
any  of  the  small  groups  that  col- 
lected about  the  halls  and  rooms 
when  the  duties  of  the  day  were 
over.  She  did  not  fawn  over  the 
new  arrivals. 

She  defied  Ketan's  analysis. 

He  hated  her  on  sight. 

He  knew  the  words  spoken  by 
the  campaigning  lieutenants  in  the 
hall  were  words  they  had  first  heard 
spoken  in  private  by  Anetel.  He 
knew  she  was  acutely  aware  of 
every  Lady  in  the  Temple  and  stu- 
diously distributed  her  agents  where 
their  propaganda  would  do  the  most 
good. 

More  than  often,  he  wondered 
why  Matra  failed  to  do  something 
about  it.  The  Temple  personnel 
was  a shambles.  Matra  could  not 
help  knowing  it. 

Perhaps  she  had  simply  reached 
the  end  of  her  power. 

But  when  he  thought  of  those 
deep,  hypnotic  eyes  and  remem- 
bered her  before  the  keyboards  of 
the  Karildex  he  did  not  believe 
that. 

For  seemingly  endless  days, 
though  actually  they  were  not 
many,  Ketan  and  Elta  and  the  rest 
of  the  new  Ladies  learned  their 
routine  .duties  of  caring  for  the  de- 
veloping human  beings. 

Ketan  found  it  strangely  amus- 
ing to  care  for  the  newest  ones,  as- 
sisting them  in  their  feeding  and 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


their  more  repulsive  personal  needs. 
He  thought  of  Teacher  Daran  and 
the  others  he  had  known  at  the 
House  of  Wisdom  walking  in  and 
recognizing  him  at  these  duties. 

Then  he  remembered  that 
Teacher  Daran  had  been  killed — 
killed  by  the  forces  that  ruled  this 
Temple  in  the  hands  of  Matra — 

He  knew  he  had  but  little  longer 
to  stay.  He  had  to  reach  a de- 
cision and  act  soon,  for  his  disguise 
was  wearing.  The  plastic  was  not 
substantial  before  the  daily  twisting 
and  friction  to  which  his  body  sub- 
jected it.  Each  night  he  had  to 
soften  it  a bit  with  hot  water  and 
remold  it.  He  wondered  curiously 
if  some  of  the  Ladies  didn’t  notice 
a strange  day-to-day  metamorpho- 
sis in  him. 

He  had  long  ago  made  his  final 
decision  with  regard  to  the  Temple. 
It  awaited  only  his  assignment  to  a 
watcher's  post  in  the  chamber  of 
birth. 

In  that  chamber  lay  the  solution 
to  the  whole  Mystery  of  the  Tem- 
ple. 

He  thought  himself  calm,  but 
the  day  his  assignment  came  his 
breath  quickened  and  his  pulses 
leaped.  He  felt  that  at  last  he  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  a solution. 

He  wondered  who  his  companion 
on  the  watch  would  be.  It  was 
too  much  to  hope  that  it  would  be 
Elta.  He  hoped  for  someone  who’d 
not  interfere  with  his  investiga- 
tions. But  he’d  find  out  what  he’d 
come  for  if  he  had  to  kill  the  other 
watcher  to  keep  her  quiet. 

It  was  Elta. 

She  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the 


chamber  and  looked  unbelievingly 
at  him.  She  half  turned  as  if  to 
escape. 

“Elta — ” he  whispered,  “this  is 
more  than  I could  have  hoped  for.” 

Her  form  seemed  to  sag  wearily. 
“Why  did  it  have  to  be  you  ?’’ 

“Elta!  Aren’t  you  glad  that  we 
can  be  alone  together  for  a time?" 

“No — listen  to  me,  Ketan.”  Her 
voice  was  anguished  now.  “I  came 
here  to  do  a certain  thing.  Will 
you  trust — this  time? 

“Perhaps  I can  do  all  that  you 
want  done — the  destruction  of  the 
Temple.  But  you  must  leave  me 
alone  here.  Go  out  of  the  cham- 
ber. Go  back  to  your  room.  You 
can  get  there  without  being  seen. 
When  I have  finished,  I will  come 
back  to  you.  We  can  fight  our  way 
out  for  I have  discovered  where 
many  Dark  Land  Weapons  are  hid- 
den. Will  you  do  this  for  me?” 

“No.” 

“Ketan—” 

“No,  Elta.  I’ll  not  leave  you  to 
go  ahead  with  whatever  mad  plan 
you  have.  Why  you  ever  came 
here,  I cannot  guess — but  I have 
my  own  purposes  and  they  are  more 
important  than  anything  you  may 
have  planned,” 

“I  have  spoken  with  Matra.  She 
approved — ” 

Ketan  stared  at  her.  What 
could  lie  believe?  Matra  had 
passed  lethal  judgment  on  Elta’s 
life.  LIow  could  she  approve  any 
plan  of  Elta’s  which  might  in- 
volve destruction  of  the  Temple? 
What  was  Elta  trying  to  do? 

“I  can’t  believe  that,”  he  said.  “I 
don’t  think  destruction  of  the  Tem- 


RBNAtSSANC'F, 


7S 


pie  is  possible  without  first  learning 
the  secrets  of  this  chamber.  How 
is  life  created  within  those  fires 
that  flame  up  in  the  niche?  What 
is  their  secret?  I intend  to  find 
out.” 

“Those  are  the  forbidden  things 
of  Kronweld,”  Elta  murmured. 
“No  man  is  meant  to  know  them. 
No  one  within  the  Temple  knows 
them.  Do  not  tamper  with  forces 
beyond  man’s  understanding.” 

“You  don’t  believe  that  any  more 
than  I do.  Why  have  you  become 
so  cautious?  It  was  not  that  way 
when  you  first  worked  within  the 
ranks  of  the  Unregistereds,  help- 
ing me  to  organize  them.” 

“Perhaps  I have  come  to  realize 
there  are  forces  beyond  man’s 
strength  to  combat.  Forces  not 
worth  combating  because  they  mean 
only  battering  heads  against  stone 
walls  and  slowly  washing  away 
life’s  energies  and  chances  for  hap- 
piness. Leave  me  now,  Ketan.  I 
will  come  back  to  you  quickly.” 

“No.” 

Never,  in  all  their  association, 
had  he  felt  so  far  distant  from  her 
as  he  did  now  in  the  small,  unholy 
chamber  in  the  depths  of  the  Tem- 
ple. 

Why  did  she  want  him  to  leave 
her  alone  in  this  place? 

It  frightened  him.  Pie  had  a 
sudden  glimpse  of  what  life  would 
be  without  her.  It.  was  like  look- 
ing over  the  edge  of  a deep  black 
chasm.  It  left  him  panicky  and  he 
drew  back  from  the  thought. 

She  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
niche,  staring  into  its  depths.  He 
had  an  impulse  to  grasp  her  in  his 


arms  and  attempt  to  crush  out  the 
bleak  mysteries  that  thrust  between 
them  like  ice  curtains. 

It  was  in  vain.  These  things 
could  not  be  swept  aside  by  a sin- 
gle embrace.  They  were  only 
branches  of  the  deep-rooted  faults 
buried  deep  in  the  society  of  Kron- 
weld. 

Pie  strode  about  the  dull,  bare 
chamber  and  examined  it  minutely. 
There  was  nothing  but  blank  walls 
of  formed  stone. 

The  niche  itself  was  just  as  bar- 
ren. 

Pie  crawled  into  it. 

Elta  screamed  a terrified  cry. 
“Ketan—!” 

The  shimmering  violet  glow  was 
rising  in  the  depths  of  the  niche. 
For  an  instant  it  seemed  to  engulf 
Ketan,  and  his  body  took  on  a ter- 
rible transparency. 

He  leaped  from  the  platform  back 
into  the  chamber.  His  face  was 
white  and  he  was  shaking  uncon- 
trollably. “Elta,  I—” 

“Look.  Here  it  comes.” 

The  white  fire  was  leaping  at 
them,  splitting  into  utter  darkness. 
Before  his  eyes  he  thrust  up  a veil 
of  the  robe  he  wore  and  stared  into 
the  incandescence. 

Then  it  was  over,  and  on  the 
platform  a squealing  infant  human 
i lay. 

Elta  lifted  it  in  her  arms.  “Ring 
the  alarm,”  she  said  dully. 

“Wait  . . . there  is  something — ” 

A strange  white  strip  was 
i wrapped  about  the  infant’s  leg. 
I Ketan  unwound  it  and  exposed  a 
j deep-cut  injury.  And  a loose 
S crumpled  sheet  fluttered  to  the 


74 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


floor.  He  picked  it  up. 

“It  looks  like  a message — ’’  He 
laughed  a little  shakily  at  the  in- 
credibility of  the  idea. 

Elta  glanced  hastily  at  it.  “De- 
stroy it.  Quickly.  Iveta n.  Some- 
one might  come  in  and  see  us  with 
it.  I'm  afraid — ” 

He  looked  up  from  the  sheet  of 
paper  into  her  eyes.  “Did  you 
look  deep  into  the  light  when  it 
came  at  the  time  of  birth.  Did  you 
see  a kind  of  vision  in  it?” 

“No,  we  were  warned — ” 

“We  were  warned  not  to  see 
what  they  don't  want  tts  to  see. 
When  that  first  wave  of  light  en- 
gulfed me  it  seemed  as  if  this 
chamber  vanished  and  I was  flung 
for  a moment  into  another  far  away 
world.  There  was  a great  assem- 
bly of  people  in  a hall  greater  than 
this  whole  Temple.  I stood  before 
them  at  the  base  of  a great  machine 
and  they  looked  up  at  me  with  fear 
and  pleading  in  their  eyes.  They 
were  crying  out  to  me  to  come  to 
them — to  save  them.” 

Elta  turned  away  and  would  not 
meet  his  gaze.  “It  must  have  been 
an  illusion.” 

“No,  I saw  it — and  I shall  see  it 
again.  Next  time  I shall  walk  to- 
wards it.  I shall  go  through  it.  I 
shall  find  that  great  hall  and  the 
crying,  pleading  people — ” 

XIII. 

He  did  not  sleep  that  night.  As 
soon  as  he  was  free  to  go  to  his 
compartment,  he  locked  himself  in 
and  took  out  the  sheet  that  he  had 
found -eq  the  baby  in  the  chamber. 


It  was  too  fantastic  to  believe 
that  this  was  an  actual  message. 

Yet,  why  not? 

The  inescapable  logic  of  his  Seek- 
ing told  him  that  the  infants  that 
were  created  amid  the  flames  in  the 
chamber  must  have  had  natural  par- 
entage somewhere,  sometime. 

Was  it  the  great  hall  filled  with 
people  who  had  looked  to  him  for 
salvation?  Their  eyes  stared  at 
him  millionfold  when  he  tried  to 
close  his  own  eyes  and  not  think 
of  them. 

It  did  not  take  him  long  to  de- 
cipher the  characters  with  doubtful 
meaning.  If  it  were  correct,  it  was 
a terrible  meaning.  Not  the  words 
themselves,  but  it  became  the  voice 
and  the  cry  of  that  visioned  con- 
course of  people. 

It  said : “If  any  of  you  live,  come 
through  to  us.  Save  us.  Bring 
weapons.” 

That  puzzled  him  most — the 
words  he  had  translated  as 
“weapon.”  Weapon  was  a guard. 
It  had  only  two  meanings,  either 
referring  to  a Serviceman  or  to  a 
protective  ring  such  as  surround- 
ing the  Temple  of  Birth,  prevent- 
ing trespassing  from  Kronweld. 

Explorers  in  the  Dark  Land  had 
devised  an  adaption  of  the  princi- 
ple of  the  protective  ring  which 
would  kill  Bors  and  other  animals 
at  a considerable  distance.  It  was 
such  a weapon  to  which  Elta  liad 
referred  earlier. 

If  he  had  translated  correctly, 
the  message  asked  for  such  a 
weapon. 

The  translation,  such  as  it  was, 
had  not  been  hard  because  the  char- 


RENATSSANCB 


76 


acters  appeared  to  be  no  more  than 
twisted  distortions  of  Kronweld 
characters,  and  a few  unknown  ad- 
ditions. It  was  a strange  language. 

While  he  stared  ia  contemplation 
at  it,  a thin  needle  of  sound  leaped 
into  being  in  the  depths  of  the 
night. 

It  sped  in  echoing  resounding 
through  the  great  halls  and  long 
corridors  and  pierced  every  sleep- 
ing ear.  It  became  a scream  of 
death  and  terror  that  cried  through 
the  Temple  and  woke  every  being. 

Ketan  ran  into  the  hall  to  find 
it  lined  with  terrified  Ladies, 
scanty  and  sheer  in  night  apparel. 

Before  he  could  even  press 
through  the  hall  and  find  the  origin 
of  the  cry,  they  were  being  herded 
back  by  the  forceful  minions  of  the 
Temple.  Adherents  of  Anetel — 
Ketan  recognized  them. 

“What  happened?”  He  added 
his  voice  to  the  babble,  and  it  was 
lost.  No  one  knew  where  the 
scream  had  come  from. 

The  Ladies  pressed  forward, 
taxing  the  staff  that  tried  to  herd 
them  back.  Then  for  a moment 
the  pressing  surge  relaxed  while 
eyes  stared  expectantly  down  the 
corridor.  More  of  Anetel’s  guards 
came  from  the  other  end  and  the 
press  in  the  hall  began  to  move 
slowly  back. 

Then  slowly,  down  the  line,  so 
spontaneous  that  no  one  knew  who 
brought  the  ■ information,  passed 
the  deadly  rumor:  “Someone  tried 
to  kill  Anetel  . . . stabbed  with  a 
knife  . . . ran  through  the  hall  with 
it  sticking  in  her  back  . . . one  of 
the  new  girls  did  it  . . . no  one 


knows  her  name — 

“It  was  Elta,  her  name  was — ” 

Ketan’s  mind  groaned  under  the 
weight  of  that  statement  and  re- 
fused to  accept  it.  It  came  down 
the  line  again — and  again — Elta 
tried  to  kill  Anetel.  They  were  all 
whispering  it — a crazy  new7  girl — 
got  in  a fight  with  Anetel — tried  to 
kill  her — was  she  dead  yet?  Elta 
was  her  name. 

Ketan  went  back  into  his  room 
and  closed  the  door.  What  could 
have  happened,  he  asked  himself 
over  and  over  again.  He  threw 
himself  in  a chair  and  held  him- 
self perfectly  still  for  the  space  of 
a hundred  heartbeats. 

There  was  nothing  he  could  do 
to  assist  Elta  yet,  if  it  were  true 
that  she  had  tried  to  kill  Anetel. 

But  why  should  she  do  such  an 
insane  thing?  That  could  not  be 
the  purpose  for  which  she  had  come 
to  the  Temple. 

He  must  not  reveal  himself 
sooner  than  necessary.  He  forced 
himself  into  semicalmness  until  the 
furor  in  the  hall  died  down.  He 
must  wait  until  morning  to  obtain 
the  available  information.  There 
would  be  time  enough  to  act  then. 
There  must  be — He  must  hold 
himself  in  abeyance  until  then. 

He  did  not  know  whether  or  not 
he  finally  slept,  or  how  long  he  sat 
there.  He  was  only  aware  next  of 
a voice  within  the  room  calling  out 
— It  whispered  suddenly  and  low 
and  unintelligibly.  He  twisted  his 
head.  There  it  was  again.  He 
spotted  the  source — an  apparently 
blank  space  on  the  wall.  He  lis- 


76 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


tcned,  holding  his  breath. 

It  came  again,  as  if  in  an  agony 
of  death.  It  was  the  voice  of 
Matra. 

“Ketan  . . . Ketan  . . . answer  if 
you  hear  me.  Ketan — ” 

“I  hear.  Where  are  you?”  he 
whispered  hoarsely. 

“My  room.  Come  to  me  at  once. 
Watch.  See  that  you  are  not  dis- 
covered. Come — ” The  voice 

trailed  to  inaudibility. 

Swiftly,  fully  awake  now,  Ketan 
crept  to  the  door,  opened  it  a crack. 
The  hall  had  long  been  cleared,  and 
the  Ladies  of  the  Temple  restored 
to  troubled,  fretful  sleep. 

Hut  one  of  them— undoubtedly  a 
cohort  of  Anetcl — was  patrol iug 
the  far  end  of  the  corridor,  lie 
saw  her  disappearing  back  as  she 
turned  a corner. 

He  raced  out  and  down  the  hall 
on  tiptoe.  lie  kept  his  head  turned, 
almost  running  backwards  to  keep 
an  eye  on  the  far  end.  He  saw  the 
foot  of  the  slow  moving  guard  ap- 
pear beyond  the  corner  again  and 
flattened  himself  in  a shallow  door- 
way. It  was  far  from  deep  enough 
to  hide  him. 

He  flattened  the  side  of  his  face 
against  the  door  and  watched  the 
guard  with,  one  eye.  His  breath 
sucked  in  sharply  as  she  started 
down  the  hall  towards  him. 

He  thought  in  that  instant  of 
Matra.  Why  had  the  old  woman 
called  him  at  this  time?  Could  it 
be  that  she  was  dying? 

The  thought  set  his  pulses  pound- 
ing. He  had  to  hear  the  rest  of  her 
story  before — 

The  guard  had  stopped  now  and 


was  peering  down  the  hall.  He 
drew  himself  inward  and  literally 
willed  himself  flatter. 

Then  slowly  she  turned,  satisfied 
that  all  was  well.  He  held  his 
breath  as  she  retreated  and  finally 
disappeared  out  of  sight  around  the 
corner. 

Matra’s  simple  quarters  were  at 
the  end  of  the  hall,  facing  the  open- 
ing into  the  great  main  assembly 
room  of  the  Temple.  Ketan  leaped 
from  the  shallow  hiding  in  the 
doorway  and  raced  once  more  along 
the  hall.  He  hesitated  before 
Matra’s  door.  The  hall  was  clear. 
He  burst  in. 

For  a moment  he  thought  the 
room  was  empty,  until  his  eyes  be- 
came accustomed  to  the  half  dark- 
ness. Then  a small,  almost  inaudi- 
ble voice  spoke  his  name.  It  came 
from  a deep  bed  in  the  far  corner 
of  the  room. 

Matra  was  there.  Only  her  face 
appeared  and  her  hands  clutching 
the  edge  of  the  coverlets.  They 
looked  like  fallen  leaves, 

“I’m  glad  you  came  ...  in  time 
— ” she  uttered  with  an  extreme  ex- 
ertion. “I  am  dying,  and  there  are 
things  I must  tell  you.” 

“Is  there  anything  I can  get?” 
Ketan  asked  softly.  “Anything  to 
ease  your  going?" 

“To  make  it  quicker?  That  is 
what  you  mean,  isn’t  it?  You 
mean  to  be  kind,”  she  said  queerly. 
“But  no,  I must  talk  as  long  as  there 
is  life  left  in  me. 

“First,  I must  tell  you  of  F.lta.  I 
was  wrong  about  her.  She  came  to 
me  today,  and  I was  wrong.  Be 
good  to  her,  Ketan.  She  loves  you. 


RENAISSANCE 


77 


T talked  long  with  her.  I showed 
her  what  the  Statists  have  done  to 
Kronweld  and  to  Earth  . . . you  do 
not  know  that  name,  do  you?  She 
believed  me  and  she  will  help  you.” 

A contortion  of  pain  gripped  the 
withered  countenance  and  twisted  it 
almost  beyond  recognition.  Ketan 
sat  hopelessly  while  the  spasm 
passed. 

“The  poison — works  swiftly,” 
Matra  groaned. 

“Poison !” 

Matra  nodded.  “Anetel  did  it. 
I should  have  known.  But  it  does 
not  matter.  You  shall  carry  on.  I 
must  hurry  . . . the  end  is  near.  I 
want  you  to  take  this  ring — ” 

She  slipped  a ring  from  her  hand 
and  passed  it  over.  Ketan  took  it 
wonderingly.  It  barely  fitted  his 
little  finger. 

“Keep  that.  It  will  protect  you 
from  the  evil  that  Anetel  plans  for 
you.  Yes  . . . she  knows  you.  You 
have  been  known  from  the  first  mo- 
ment you  entered  the  Preparation 
Center.  It  is  not  that  easy  to  gain 
access  to  the  Temple  of  Birth,”  she 
smiled  grimly.  “We  both  knew 
you  and  each  of  us  thought  to  use 
you  for  our  own  purposes.  In  that, 
I have  w’on. 

“I  fear  my  time  is  short.”  An- 
other grimace  of  pain  crossed  the 
weathered  face.  “Elta  knows  what 
to  do.  She  will  tell  you  the  rest. 
I wanted  you  to  know  that  she  is 
innocent  of  any  harm.” 

“But  whv  did  she  try  to  kill 
Anetel?” 

“She  ...  did  , . . that?”  The 
crone  tried  to  rise  in  bed  and  sank 
back  with  a groan.  “Oh,  the  fool 

7* 


. . . the  little  fool  . . . the  wonderful 
little  fool—” 

“Why?” 

“She  thought  to  help.  But  it 
will  be  of  no  avail.  We  have  the 
situation  under  control — But  you 
say  she  tried?” 

“I  am  not  certain  of  anything — 
only  W'hat  is  rumored  in  the  Tem- 
ple. Anetel's  minions  are  keeping 
the  corridors  cleared.” 

“Yes  . . . she  has  had  her  own  or- 
ganization among  us  for  a long 
time.  I have  v’atched  her  build  it 
up.  But  it  does  not  matter.  I 
have  my  own,  too,  and  we  have 
prevented  her  from  sending  any  im- 
portant information  out  of  here.” 
Quick  pain  now  embraced  the 
husk  of  Matra,  pain  that  would  not 
leave.  It  twisted  her  face  and 
clouded  her  eyes  until  she  shut  them 
and  vide  pools  of  liquid  formed 
in  their  corners,  pools  that  widened 
and  at  last  burst  and  flooded  down 
the  canyons  of  her  face  like  over- 
flowing reservoirs. 

“This  is  it,”  she  gurgled  through 
the  pain.  “There  was  so  much 
more  I had  to  tell  you.  But  Elta 
. . . she  knows  all  of  it.  See  that 
she  has  her  ring  ...  it  may  be 
necessary  for  her,  too.  Do  not 
lose  them,  either  of  you.  Now  . . . 
God  bless  you!” 

Her  body  twitched,  her  throat 
noised  horribly — and  she  lay  still. 

For  a long  time  Ketan  knelt  be- 
side the  body,  uncomprehending, 
unable  to  move  a muscle.  He 
stared  dowm  in  utter  bewilderment 
and  winder.  And  a terrible  sense 
of  alien  forces  and  powers  over 


ASTOUNDING  SC  IE  NOE  FICTION 


him  came  with  the  realization  that 
it  was  not  the  God  referred  to  by 
Nabah  and  his  followers  to  whom 
Matra  had  called  out  for  blessings 
upon  him. 

He  gazed  down  upon  the  tired 
little  body.  What  burdens  it  had 
carried  during  the  infinite  tara  it 
had  existed ! N ow,  already,  disin- 
tegration had  set  in.  Probably  no 
man  would  ever  know  what  those 
burdens  were. 

He  rose  abruptly,  conscious  once 
, more  of  his  own  position  and  the 
peril  of  Elta.  He  looked  at  the 
curious  ring  that  Matra  had  given 
him.  It  w'as  only  a shining  golden 
band.  And  Elta  had  one  like  it. 
How'  could  pow'ers  of  salvation  ex- 
ist in  the  tiny,  impotent  looking 
thing  ? 

The  hall  was  still  deserted  as  he 
stepped  back  into  it.  Not  even  the 
guard  wras  in  sight.  He  returned 
quickly  to  his  own  room  without 
incident  and  sat  dowm  in  the  deep 
chair. 

The  death  of  Matra  had  shaken 
him.  There  was  nothing  so  repel- 
lent as  w'itnessing  death.  In  Kron- 
weld,  those  who  escorted  incurables 
to  the  Place  of  Dying  were  them- 
selves pariahs,  and  only  the  low'est 
of  the  declassed  could  be  foixed  into 
the  job.  Death  w'as  abhorrent. 

Yet,  he  recalled,  there  had  been 
a curious  peacefulness  and  serenity 
about  Matra.  She  wras  not  afraid. 
She  appeared  to  almost  welcome 
death.  She  regretted  only  that  the 
terrible  wrestling  forces  about  her 
had  not  reached  satisfactory  equi- 
librium. Ketan  felt  an  irrational 
obligation  to  the  dead  woman,  an 


obligation  to  carry  on  her  work  even 
as  she  had  implied — whatever  her 
W'ork  was. 

But  the  thought  of  Elta  tor- 
mented him.  Why  had  she  tried  to 
kill  Anetel?  The  petty  internal  af- 
fairs of  the  Temple  did  not  con- 
cern her.  It  w'as  the  entire  struc- 
ture that  had  to  be  destroyed. 

He  strove  in  vain  to  conceive  a 
logical  plan  of  reaching  Elta. 

They  came  in  upon  him  w'hile  he 
sat  there. 

XIV. 

Anetel  was  foremost.  Three  of 
her  followers  w'ere  behind  her. 

Ketan  leaped  up.  Anetel’s  eyes 
flashed  insolence  at  him.  A satiri- 
cal smile  played  about  her  lips.  One 
arm  w'as  suspended  in  a sling  and 
thickly  bandaged..  Someone  had 
stabbed  her — 

“You  might  as  well  remove  that 
piece  of  plastic  from  your  nose. 
It’s  about  to  fall  off.” 

“I’ve  grown  rather  accustomed  to 
it.” 

“As  you  will.  What  a fool  you 
must  have  been  to  think  you  could 
come  in  here  without  detection — 
and  deceive  Anetel.  I have  every 
record  that  Matra' made  of  your  at- 
tack upon  the  girl  at  the  Prepara-' 
tion  Center.  Your  words  with 
Matra.  Your  amusing  sculptoring 
each  morning.  And  your  desecra- 
tion in  the  chamber  of  birth. 

“I  want  that  message!  Give  it 
to  me.” 

She  held  out  her  hand  imperi- 
ously. 

Katen  leaped  backwards  to  the 


RENAISSANCE 


79 


original  and  his  translation  which 
lay  on  the  table  behind  him.  He 
flung  them  into  the  open  waste  dis- 
posal chute  in  the  wall, 

"That  is  just  as  well,”  said  Ane- 
tel.  "I  just  didn’t  want  it  lying 
around  where  curious  Ladies  might 
wonder  about  it.  We  have  to  re- 
move Ladies  who  succeed  in  trans- 
lating them.” 

"There  have  been  others?” 
“Many  of  them.  That’s  why  you 
were  warned  not  to  examine  the 
babies,  but  bring  them  quickly  to 
the  reception  chamber.  But  in  any 
case  it  would  have  been  necessary 
to  sentence  you.” 

He  gazed  straight  into  her  ar- 
rogant face.  “And  what  does  that 
mean  ?” 

“I’m  surprised,”  she  mocked. 
“You  were  such  a great  Seeker  in 
Kronweld.  You  would  tear  down 
and  destroy  this  false  Temple  and 
replace  it  with  truth.  Have  you 
never  heard  the  truth  of  the  Tem- 
ple and  the  great  door  in  the 
Edge  ?” 

Ketan  looked  puzzled.  Anetel 
laughed.  Then  amazement  flooded 
over  him.  That  blackness  in  the 
niche ! 

What  a fool  he  had  been  not  to 
realize  it  before.  That  was  the 
Edge  itself. 

“I  recall  from  your  history,”  said 
Anetel,  “that  in  your  youth  you 
proposed  that  Seekers  find  a way 
.to  pass  through  or  over  the  Edge 
and  discover  what  was  on  the  other 
side.  Well,  you  shall  find  out!” 
“What  do  you  mean?” 

“Hundreds  of  tara  in  the  past, 
there  was  a great  battle  in  Kron- 

’.8« 


weld.  There  were  thousands  of  ig- 
norant primitives  who  opposed  the 
Seekers.  They  said  that  Seeking 
was  against  the  will  of  the  God  and 
they  slew  hundreds  of  our  noblest 
Seekers.  But  in  the  end  they  were 
defeated  and  a great  Seeker  whose 
very  name  is  now  forgotten  dis- 
covered how  to  build  a gate  in  the 
Edge  which  would  open  upon  a 
bleak  and  terrible  prison  world  on 
the  other  side.  A world  that  would 
make  Fire  Land  and  Dark  Land 
look  as  if  they  were  gardens  of 
paradise.  He  built  this  gate  and 
the  defeated  ignorants  were  impris- 
oned in  this  land.  It  is  an  eternal 
land.  One  in  which  none  ever  die 
and  they  are  there  to  this  day.” 

A sudden,  haunting  vision  grew 
up  before  Ketan’s  eyes — a mighty 
assemblage  of  pleading  faces.  His 
own  face  betrayed  his  emotion. 

“Ah — you  have  seen  them,  then,” 
Anetel  laughed.  “And  by  your  face 
I see  that  you  pity  them.  Pity 
yourself,  poor  Seeker,  for  you  shall 
join  them  and  your  face  shall  be 
one  of  those  to  stare  and  haunt  the 
curious  Ladies  who  shall  try  to 
penetrate  the  secret  of  life  in  the 
future — until  they  also  shall  join 
you.” 

“You  can’t  believe  me  so  stupid 
as  to  believe  a fantastic  lie  as  that. 
Why  should  nothing  be  known  in 
Kronweld  of  this?  And  where 
does  new  life  come  from?  Your 
tale  hardly  explains  that.” 

“That — ? That  was  another  tri- 
umph of  the  same  Seeker  who 
opened  the  Edge.  If  it  is  any  con- 
solation, you  may  know  that  you 
were  right  in  your  theories  of  the 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


creation  of  life.  We  come  into  be- 
ing in  the  same  horrible  manner  as 
the  Bors  whose  association  you 
found  so  desirable.  But  the  peo- 
ple of  Kr*nweld  have  been  spared 
this  horror.  It  is  the  creation  of 
the  imprisoned  ones  who  are  drawn 
through  the  Edge  to  replenish 
Kronweld.  They  are  the.  animals 
which  breed  us.  The  infants  alone 
can  come  through.  The  others  can 
go  only  from  heie  to  there.” 

Ketan  stood  aghast.  As  abhor- 
rent as  her  story  was,  it  would  ex- 
plain everything  if  it  were  true. 
Everything  about  the  Temple  was 
fantastic,  unreal,  yet  each  incredible 
revelation  seemed  to  bring  him 
nearer  the  truth. 

“You  will  be  sentenced  today,” 
Anetel  said.  She  turned  to  leave. 

Ketan  leaped  swiftly  after  her. 
Instinctively,  she  whirled  aside  and 
her  one  free  hand  snapped  out  from 
beneath  her  robe. 

“I  think  you  know  what  this  is,” 
she  said. 

Ketan  glanced  at  the  object  in 
her  hand.  It  was  a Dark  Land 
weapon — capable  of  reducing  him 
to  a breath  of  ash  in  an  instant. 

Then  as  Anetel  caught  sight  of 
him  standing  immobile  there  the 
flash  of  the  golden  ring  on  his  fin- 
ger struck  her  eye. 

It  seemed  to  sober  her, 

“So  Matra  thought  to  outwit  me 
even  as  she  died,”  Anetel  mur- 
mured. “Give  me  that  ring.” 

Her  eyes  were  hard  gems  of  ut- 
ter coldness  beyond  human  compre- 
hension. Ketan  handed  the  ring 
over  instantly. 

He  knew  it  was  either  that  or  let 


her  flame  him. 

“Good,”  she  said,  pocketing  the 
ring  with  a quick  motion.  “Now, 
Elta  undoubtedly  has  one,  too.  I 
must  get  hers.” 

Thqy  sealed  the  door  when  they 
left.  Ketan  stared  dumbly  at  it. 
Idly,  he  glanced  down  at  the  barren 
finger.  There  was  no  escape  now. 
But  he  had  at  last  found  the  secret 
of  the  Temple.  He  would  be  sent 
to  the  exile  beyond  the  Edge. 

A fantastic  exultation  swept 
through  him.  What  did  his  own 
life  matter  if  he  proved  his  Seek- 
ing? 

And  somehow,  somewhen — if  he 
still  lived — he  would  find  a way 
back.  Elta  was  his  only  worry. 
What  would  become  of  her? 

At  that  moment  a voice  spoke 
within  the  room.  “Ketan  . . . 
Ketan ! Can  you  hear  me  ? Speak 
if  you  hear  me.” 

“Elta ! Where  are  you  ?” 

“I  escaped  from  my  confinement 
and  found  the  communication  cen- 
ter of  the  Temple.  I’m  speaking 
to  you  by  it.  I can  hear  anything 
that  is  spoken  in  your  room.  Lis- 
ten to  me,  Ketan.  I know  what 
they  plan  to  do  to  you.  I have 
stolen  one  of  the  Dark  Land  weap- 
ons and  I can  get  another.  I have 
a disguise  and  will  hide  in  the 
chamber  of  birth.  I'll  be  one  of 
the  watchers  there.  I will  hide 
one  of  the  weapons  just  inside  the 
niche.  Let  them  lead  you  up  to  it 
and  then  take  the  weapon  and  we'll 
fight  our  way  out.” 

“No,  Elta!  That  is  impossible — 
we’d  have  to  slay  everyone  in  the 


RENAISSANCE 


81 


Temple.  And  then  where  would 
we  go?  All  Kronweld  would  be 
waiting' for  us  outside,  for  I know 
there  is  communication  with  the 
outside.” 

“We  must ! There  is  no  time  to 
lose.” 

“Put  the  weapon  in  the  niche  as 
you  planned.  When  I go  through, 
follow  me.” 

“No—!” 

“That’s  what  you  came  for,  isn’t 
it?” 

“Yes  . . . yes,  but — ” 

“We’ll  find  the  way  back.  You 
know  what  is  on  the  other  side,  but 
I don’t,  and  it  will  be  the  realization 
of  dreams  for  me.  And  I will 
prove  to  you  that  whatever  it  is  you 
are  afraid  of  is  no  cause  for  fear. 
Now,  do  as  I say,  Elta.” 

“A-ll  right.  I'm  a fool,  but  it’s 
only  because  I love  you.  Have 
your  weapon  ready  to  use  the  in- 
stant the  flames  begin.  You  must 
kill  quickly  when  you  get  through.” 

The  chamber  of  birth  was  tomb- 
like as  sentence  was  passed  upon 
Ketan.  He  stood  silent  and  wait- 
ing before  the  ebon  sheet  of  the  ex- 
posed Edge. 

Behind  him,  white-robed  Ladies 
of  the  Temple  stood  like  attendant 
ghosts. 

He  did  not  give  a betraying 
glance  at  the  watchers  post  where 
Elta  sat.  He  wondered  how  she 
had  succeeded  in  escaping.  Her 
presence  gave  him  a sense  of  satis- 
faction and  comfort  for  he  knew 
that  no  dangers  they  could  be  go- 
ing into  could  match  the  danger 
to  Elta  here  in  the  Temple. 

82 


Behind  him  he  now  observed  two 
burly  Ladies  with  long  padded 
poles.  These  were  for  use  in  case 
he  became  reluctant  to  walk  into  the 
flames.  And  still  farther  back  was 
Anetcl  with  her  waiting  Dark  Land 
weapon  in  case  the  two  assistants 
failed. 

Ketan  was  still  clad  in  his  plas- 
tic disguise  and  Anetel  had  ironi- 
cally ordered  him  to  clothe  in  the 
induction  robes  with  which  he  had 
entered  the  Temple.  “A  new  in- 
duction awaits  you,”  she  had  said. 

Now  they  waited.  He  hoped  it 
would  not  be  long.  But  he  well 
knew  that  it  might  be  days  even,  be- 
fore another  infant  appeared  amid 
the  flaming  opening  of  the  gate- 
way. 

It  was  coming! 

The  flickering  purple  shadows 
crossed  the  ebony  sheet  in  the 
depths  of  the  niche.  A low  cry 
came  from  the  assembled  Ladies. 
Ketan  glanced  towards  the  spot 
where  Elta’s  promised  weapon  was 
to  be. 

There  was  nothing  there. 

He  stared  in  dismay. 

The  purple  was  becoming  red. 
A wave  of  deep,  blasting  heat  swept 
momentarily  over  him.  Then  it  was 
gone.  The  light  rose  through  the 
spectrum  and  flamed  white  and  be- 
came edged  with  blue. 

He  hesitated  and  turned.  There 
was  a vicious  jab  in  the  small  of 
his  back  that  cramped  him  with 
pain.  It  drove  him  forward  into 
the  blue-white  flames. 

His  backward  glance  took  in  the 
watchers  post.  Neither  of  them 
was  Elta. 

A.STOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


He  did  not  have  time  to  com- 
prehend the  catastrophe  of  this. 
The  poles  jabbed  the  small  of  Iris 
back  in  sickening  pain.  Then  he 
was  running  down  a long  corridor 
of  twisting,  writhing  flames  that 
flung  his  body  about  and  tore  at 
him  with  tangible  fingers  of  fire. 

They  stared  up  at  him  as  if  time 
had  stopped  for  them  eons  ago. 
There  was  fear  and  terror  frozen 
into  their  gaping  faces — thousands 
of  them.  Wave  on  wave — wave  on 
wave — they  surged  and  cried  out  to 
him. 

And  they  shrank  back  from  him 
as  if  from  a lightning  blast.  He 
was  glowing,  burning — every  fiber 
of  him — with  an  incandescent  blaze 
that  would  have  seared  blind  any 
normal  eyes. 

But  he  was  not  normal.  He  was 
a god  in  an  inferno  of  light,  a great 
bubble  of  it  that  swept  him  on  and 
on  through  the  reaches  of  space 
and  eternity,  beyond  realms  where 
Kronweld  was  only  a half  remem- 
bered dream  that  had  never  existed 
in  reality — into  a land  where  mutely 
pleading  faces  looked  up  at  him 
and  cried  out  for  salvation.  Wave 
on  wave — wave  on  wave — 

The  light  in  and  about  him 
faded  and  died.  The  vast  con- 
course of  humanity  vanished. 

He  was  alone,  utterly  alone  in  all 
the  universe.  There  was  not  an- 
other creature  in  existence.  Dream- 
less and  at  peace  he  floated  in  the 
vast  void  that  stretched  between 
creations  his  mind  could  not  grasp. 


He  began  to  laugh.  This  was  a 
stupid,  an  impossible  existence. 
He,  therefore,  had  ceased  to  exist. 
But  he  had  had  existence  a moment 
before — The  moment  before — he 
couldn’t  remember  it.  There  was 
no  moment  before.  He  was  in 
eternity  and  there  is  no  before 
^eternity. 

His  laughter  shook  the  light 
spangled  vault  that  encompassed 
him.  It  undulated  the  space  in 
which  he  floated  and  he  began  to 
rise  and  fall — rise  and  fall — in  in- 
creasing waves  that  swelled  to  pro- 
digious amplitude.  Waves  that 
flung  him  from  one  end  of  the  uni- 
verse to  the  other  and  ^turned 
him,  smashing  and  shattering  great 
incomprehensible  suns  and  destroy- 
ing worlds  in  vast  sweeps. 

And  then  he  burst  the  expanding 
wave  and  plummeted  through  other 
times  and  other  universes,  borne  on 
the  mad  explosion  of  a creation. 

His  vision  congealed.  His  feet 
were  pumping  slowly  up  and  down, 
slogging  through  deep,  wind-blown 
sand.  From  horizon  to  horizon 
there  was  only  sand,  white-hot  sand 
that  reflected  the  light  of  a single 
globe  in  searing  radiance. 

In  the  midst  of  the  desert  there 
rose  a great  towering  pinnacle  of 
rock.  A shaft  of  salvation.  He 
must  get  to  that  rock.  His  life  de- 
pended on  it.  The  life  of  Kron- 
weld— he  paused  a moment  and 
struggled  to  recall  what  the  word 
meant — Kronweld  depended  on  it. 
He  must  reach  that  pinnacle  in  the 
blinding  sands. 


TO  BE  CONTINUED. 


EENAISSANOE 


S3 


Thought 


by  FRITZ  LEiBER,  JR. 

With  his  technique,  he  claimed,  he  could  read 
any  thought  a man  might  have  from  graphs  and 
charts.  And — the  claim  iself  broke  him  completely! 

Illustrated  by  Orban 

“So,  you  see,  there  is  no  thought  the  sunlit  projection  space  behind. 
I cannot  catch.”  Yet  mingled  with  the  arrogance  was 

Harborford’s  chin  jutted  arro-  a sincerity  that  made  it  difficult  to 
gantly  as  he  said  it.  He  looked  take — or  at  least  to  show — offense, 
rather  like  a Napoleon  of  the  men-  Blacklaw  was  up  against  this 
tal  realms,  with  gray  thought-trac-  difficulty. 

ings  instead  of  maps  scattered  “That’s  a large  statement,”  he 
across  the  desk  in  front  of  him  and  remarked.  “I  should  think  there 
showing  ghostlike  and  gigantic  in  would  always  be  some  cases — ” 


81 


A STOTJNDING  SCI P,N C'K-Fl  CTI ON 


“No !*'  Harborford’s  stumpy  hand 
thumped  the  pile  of  tracings,  then 
seized  one  and  pointed  at  an  oddly 
humped  trace  which  stood  out 
plainly  from  the  shadowy  pattern. 
“See,  even  when  you  were  thinking 
that  I could  not  catch  your  thought, 
I caught  that  thought !’’ 

Blacklaw  grinned  woefully.  “I’ll 
admit  you  plucked  out  some  of  my 
hiddenmost  secrets,”  he  said.  “An 
amazing  performance,  considering 
the  brief  time  you  had  for  orienta- 
tion. Still,  I have  the  feeling  that 
you’d  eventually  run  up  against  cer- 
tain insurmountable  difficulties.  It’s 
an  elusive  point  I'm  trying  to  make. 
I don’t  know  quite  how  to  express 
it,  because — ” 

“Because  it’s  a false  point,”  Har- 
bor ford  interrupted  conclusively. 
“If  I had  you  back  in  the  projector- 
ium,  that  would  become  obvious  at 
once.  You  could  see  the  incon- 
sistency indications,  the  breakage 
lines  signifying  illogic,  for  yourself. 
No,  I’m  afraid  humanity  must  face 
the  fact  that,  given  time  and  the 
proper  facilities  for  research,  there 
is  not  one  of  its  thoughts  which  I 
cannot  ferret  out.”  He  sat  down. 

Blacklaw  followed  his  example. 
He  felt  a twinge  of  regret  which 
did  not  show  in  his  lean,  mobile 
face.  It  was  beginning  to  look  as 
if  he  would  have  to  use  Harbor- 
ford’s  dogmatic  challenge  for  the 
theme  of  his  article,  even  though 
the  resultant  product  would  re- 
semble primitive  twentieth-century 
journalism.  He  had  rather  hoped 
to  do  something  quieter  for  the 
Nexvsbeam. 

He  brushed  aside  these  consider- 


ations. “Let  me  see  if  I have  the 
general  outlines  straight.  Don’t 
want  to  pull  any  boners,  though  of 
course  I’ll  send  you  a transcript  for 
corrections  before  we  beam  it.” 
Harborford  nodded  gravely.  “Well, 
as  I understand  it,  thought  involves 
changes  of  electrical  potential 
throughout  the  brain.  These 
changes  interfere  with  the  uniform 
sub-photonic  beam  passing  through 
the  subject’s  brain  and  are  eventu- 
ally projected  as  a pattern  of 
grays.” 

“Making  use  of  the  technique  of 
beam-amplification  which  has  revo- 
lutionized astronomy,”  Harborford 
reminded  him. 

“Yes.  Well,  then  doesn’t  a lot 
depend  on  the  angle  from  which 
you  take  the  projection  ? Wouldn’t 
an  arbitrary  change  in  the  angle  at 
which  the  beam  passes  through  the 
subject’s  brain  make  the  resultant 
tracing  almost  unrecognizable?” 

“Only  in  the  case  of  two-dimen- 
sional tracings.  Kesserik,  would 
you — ” Harborford  motioned  to 

the  dark,  wiry  man  at  the  far  end 
of  the  room.  He  manipulated  some 
controls.  It  became  black.  In  the 
empty  space  beyond  Harborford’s 
desk,  a mistiness  became  apparent, 
took  on  thickness,  manifested  itself 
as  a dome-shaped  dancing  of  lights 
and  shadows. 

Harborford  stood  up.  To  Black- 
law he  was  a stubby,  square  shoul- 
dered silhouette,  from  which  came  a 
didactic  voice. 

“There  are,  you  see,  not  one,  but 
a series  of  beams.  Each  focuses 
one  potential  plane  in  the  brain, 
and  one  only.  These  planes  are 

85 


THOUGHT 


projected  as  a packet,  building  up 
a three-dimensional  picture.  Very 
much  as,  in  primitive  television,  a 
two-dimensional  picture  was  built 
from  single  points  of  light.” 

He  walked  back  from  Blacklaw 
until  he  was  in  the  shadowy  dome. 
Then  he  turned  around.  A con- 
stantly altering  flicker  illumined  his 
chinny  face. 

“I  am  now  standing  in  such  a 
three-dimensional  picture.  Dark 
light,  timed  to  explode  into  visibility 
at  an  exact  distance  from  the  pro- 
jector, does  away  with  the  need  for 
a series  of  screens.  The  picture  is 
not  directly  projected,  of  course, 
from  a human  brain  present  with 
us  now,  but  from  one  of  the  multi- 
level films  made  in  the  projector- 
ium.  It  comes,  however,  to  the 
same  thing.”  He  spread  his  arms 
wide.  “I  am  standing,  as  it  were, 
in  the  midst  of  a thinking  human 
brain.  Each  flicker  is  a nerve  dis- 
charge, or  a thought-pattern,  or  a 
conscious  thought.  And  I can  in- 
terpret every  one  of  them.  Nothing 
is  hidden — not  the  faintest  twinge 
of  feeling-  or  the  subtlest  hint  of  an 
idea.” 

His  voice  was  triumphant  and 
raw  with  emotion,  as  if  all  this  were 
very  important  to  him  in  an  in- 
tensely personal  way.  Blacklaw 
wondered  why.  As  before,  he  was 
both  impressed  and  repelled.  Bathed 
in  that  swirling  flicker,  Harborford 
seemed  like  some  evil  gnome  that 
had  crept  into  the  human  brain  to 
strut  and  mock.  Blacklaw  knew 
this  was  a foolish  feeling,  yet  it 
was  so. 

The  flicker  dwindled.  Sunlight 


returned.  The  dark,  wiry  man, 
who  seemed  faintly  bored,  went 
back  to  a desk  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room. 

Harborford  said,  “So,  you  see, 
the  three-dimensional  picture  is 
basic.  Two-dimensionals,  however, 
are  convenient  for  reference  and 
comparison.  In  them  the  packet  of 
planes  is  compressed  into  one  plane, 
with  the  resultant  blending  effect. 
They  are  generally  taken  from  a 
frontal  position,  to  insure  uni- 
formity.” 

Blacklaw  frowned.  He  said,  “I 
think  I understand  that  part  of  it 
now.  But  that  only  leaves  you  with 
a very  complex  and  shadowy  pat- 
tern of  grays.  I don’t  quite  see — ” 

Harborford  bridled.  “A  pattern 
which  we  can  analyze  down  to  the 
last  detail.  We  can  pick  out  and 
follow  an  individual  thought-trace 
as  readily  as  a trained  musician, 
listening  to  a symphony,  can  recog- 
nize the  note  of  a single  instru- 
ment— or  its  pattern  in  a sound 
track." 

“I  didn't  make  myself  dear. 
Analysis  still  only  leaves  you  with 
a pattern  of  tracings,  meaningless 
by  themselves.  It’s  in  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  tracings  that  I’d 
think  there’d  be  room  for  error.” 

“Not  at  all.”  Harborford  was 
dogmatic.  “While  the  tracings  are 
being  made,  the  subject  is  presented 
with  various  stimuli  — pictures, 
words,  and  so  forth — and  he  gives 
us  a verbal  account  of  his  thought, 
which,  is  recorded.  Stimuli  and 
account  are  afterwards  correlated 
with  the  tracings.  In  a single  in- 
stance, error  or  deception  would  be 


ss 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


possible.  But  when  the  instances 
are  multiplied,  when  the  same 
ground  is  covered  again  and  again, 
any  such  possibility  cancels  out. 
VVe  know  the  thought  back  of  each 
individual  trace  and  can  identify  it 
whenever  it  reappears— whether  in 
the  median  size  and  dark  gray  of  a 
sensation,  the  light  gray  of  a mem- 
ory, the  isolated  black  pattern  of  a 
so-called  unconscious  thought,  or 
the  large  and  comprehensive  pattern 
of  an  abstraction  or  generalization.” 

He  warmed  to  his  subject.  “The 
whole  logical  process  is  open  to  our 
view,  just  as  if  it  were  diagramed 
on  a blackboard.  For  example,  you 
have  in  mind  the  knowledge  of  in- 
dividual houses  and  also  the  general 
idea  ‘house.’  The  former  would 
show  as  a set  of  similar  small 
traces,  the  latter  as  a large  trace 
covering  them  all  and  growing  from 
them — a kind  of  magnified  compo- 
site photograph.  Similarly,  we  can 
identify  the  traces  representing  the 
subject’s  knowledge  of  a scientific 
law  and  the  instances  of  that  law'. 
Most  important,  if  one  of  the  in- 
stances does  not  agree  with  the  law 
and  therefore  tends  to  be  sup- 
pressed, we  can  spot  it  at  once — the 
inconsistency  indications  are  very 
marked.  Ultimately,  all  scientists 
and  thinkers  of  any  consequence 
will  have  their  thought  processes 
checked  at  frequent  intervals.  In 
this  way  they  will  become  truly  in- 
fallible thinking  machines.  All 
cloudiness  and  freakishness  will  be 
eliminated  from  human  thought.” 

Harborford  leaned  back  and 
smiled  at  Blacklaw.  His  voice  was 


easier  now  and  friendly,  marked  by 
that  sincerity  which  tempered  his 
arrogance.  “Of  course,  each  per- 
son requires  detailed  study.  The 
brain  is  very  plastic  with  regard  to 
which  set  of  neurons  does  which 
job.  Fairly  similar  thought  pat- 
terns may  mean  quite  different 
things  in  two  individuals.  Al- 
though, after  spending  years  in  in- 
terpreting tracings,  one  acquires  an 
amazing  knack  of  catching  on  to 
the  patterns  of  a new  mind.  You 
saw  what  I was  able  to  do  in  your 
case.” 

Blacklaw  rehearsed  his  woeful 
grin. 

“However,”  Harborford  con- 
tinued, leaning  forward,  stubby  fin- 
ger tapping  the  pile  of  tracings 
strewn  across  his  desk,  “there  is  in 
the  long  run  no  substitute  for  de- 
tailed study  of  a single  individual 
• — sessions  running  over  months  and 
years,  until  you  can  interpret  every 
twist  and  turn  of  his  mind.  I have 
literally  hundreds  of  miles  of  taped 
files  on  single  cases.”  His  expres- 
sion grew  suddenly  angry  and  bit- 
ter. “Unfortunately  I have  been 
rather  unlucky  in  my  choice  of  sub- 
jects for  detailed  study.  Each  one 
of  them  found  some  excuse  to 
break  off  the  sessions,  just  as  I was 
getting  to  know  their  minds  com- 
pletely.” His  voice  became  heavily 
sarcastic.  “They  professed  to  be 
afraid  of  losing  individuality,  of  be- 
coming mere  mental  guinea  pigs. 
They  developed  or  claimed  to  de- 
velop, a wholly  unreasoning  terror 
—as  if  I were  some  primitive 
medicine-man  trying  to  trap  their 
souls.”  He  laughed  harshly.  “For- 


THOUGHT 


67 


tunately,  I have  at  least  one  subject 
on  whom  my  files  are  complete — 
myself.  For  years  now  there  has 
not  been  a single  thought-trace 
taken  from  my  mind  that  I could 
not  immediately  interpret.” 

For  a moment  Blacklaw  wrestled 
with  the  image  of  Harborford  in- 
tently studying  his  thoughts  both 
from  inside  and  out,  hour  after 
hour.  Then  he  said,  “I  believe  I 
can  understand  the  attitude  of  your 
subjects.  I don't  imagine  they  were 
insincere.  After  all,  privacy  is 
something  that  most  people  prize 
highly — mental  as  well  as  physical. 
There’s  something  terrible  in  the 
thought  of  not  having  at  least  one 
corner  of  your  mind  wholly  your 
own,  to  which  you  can  retreat.” 

“Superstition!”  Flarborford  said 
harshly.  “A  reversion  to  primitive 
attitudes — the  secrecy  of  the  hunted 
or  hunting  beast ! An  outcropping 
of  that  illogic  and  lack  of  realism 
which  has  at  regular  intervals 
vitiated  the  progress  of  human 
thought — under  the  guise  of  mys- 
ticism, intuitionalism,  inspiration- 
alism,  or  some  other  nonsense ! Fear 
of  science’s  light ! But  I have  ended 
all  that.” 

He  threw  himself  back,  breath- 
ing heavily.  His  eyes  studied 
Blacklaw,  whose  smiling  composure 
remained  unbroken.  Gradually  they 
changed.  The  angry  glare  was  re- 
placed by  an  embarrassed  grimace. 
He  leaned  forward. 

“Pardon  me,”  he  said.  “But  it 
is  a matter  on  which  I feel  very 
deeply.  You  see,  in  my  childhood 
I had  a very  unpleasant  experi- 
ence— " 

as 


His  voice  sank.  His  hands  played 
aimlessly  with  the  piled  tracings, 
shuffling  and  reshuffling  them.  Fie 
murmured,  “I  don't  know  why  I’m 
telling  you  this — ” 

Blacklaw  did.  It  was  because 
people  didn’t  know  why  they  were 
telling  him  things  that  he  was  the 
Nnvs  be  cun's  ace  interviewer. 

“—but  if  you’ve  read  anything 
about  me,  you  probably  know  it 
anyhow.  My  parents  were  Irra- 
tionalists — you  must  have  heard  of 
that  wild  cult,  though  now  it’s  al- 
most died  out.  I was  an  only  child, 
educated,  if  30U  can  call  it  that,  at 
home.  They  looked  on  me  only  as 
someone  on  whom  they  could  try 
out  their  theories — a defenseless 
new  convert  to  their  crazy  cause. 
There  were  other  regrettable  cir- 
cumstances. As  a result  I spent 
two  years  in  a mental  sanitarium.” 

His  hands  went  on  shuffling  the 
tracings.  His  eyes  stared  at  them 
blankly. 

"Ultimately  the  results  were  very 
fortunate.  My  parents  lost  control 
of  me.  My  recovery  left  me  with 
an  icy  enmity  to  any  sort  of  mental 
secrecy — any  hobgoblinism — and  a 
burning  determination  to  lay  bare 
all  the  hidden  corners  of  the  mind, 
my  own  and  others’,  so  that  the 
light  of  science  would  bathe  them 
and  forever  prevent  any  cancerous 
thought-growths  in  .darkness.  That 
determination  has  never  left  me. 
It  was  that  which  led  me  to  the 
study  of  psychology  and  ultimately 
to  these  present  researches  in  a field 
which  others  pioneered.  It  is  back 
of  everything  I have  done.  It 
has—” 


ASTOUNDING  SC  I ENCE -FI  C'TI  ON 


The  sentence  was  left  hanging  in 
the  aii'.  Blacklaw  was  conscious  of 
a peculiar  tremor  in  the  last  word — 
something  that  lingered  and  some- 
how gave  him  a faint  shiver.  He 
looked  up. 

Harborford's  hands  had  stopped 
playing  with  the  tracings.  Grip- 
ping one  they  were  frozen.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  something. 
Either  he  or  the  sunlight  had  grown 
a shade  pale. 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  big  work- 
room. From  the  far  end  came  a 
faint  shuffling  noise  as  the  dark, 
wiry  man  shifted  at  his  work.  Again 
Blacklaw  shivered  faintly,  without 
knowing  why. 

“What  is  it?”  he  heard  himself 
ask. 


Harborford’s  voice  was  almost 
normal — there  was  only  the  tiniest 
suggestion  of  a choked,  muffled 
quality. 

“This  trace  ...  I don't  recognize 
it  ...  I can’t  interpret  it  ...  I don’t 
know  what  it  means — ” , 

Swiftly  Blacklaw  moved  behind 
the  desk,  peered  over  Harborford’s 
shoulder.  A stubby  forefinger,  al- 
most steady  as  a rock,  followed  a 
misty,  humped  shadow  all  the  way 
across  the  mazy  pattern.  “I  don’t 
know  how  I ever  came  to  miss  it.” 
“One  of  mine,  isn’t  it?”  said 
Blacklaw  quickly. 

“No.”  Harborford  paused 
heavily,  “one  of  mine.1’ 

“But  it  looks  so  much  like  that 


THOUGHT 


89 


trace  you  pointed  out  to  me  a little 
while  ago — ” 

“No!  Any  such  resemblance  is 
purely  superficial ! A layman’s  mis- 
take!” Angry  denial,  not  untinged 
with  panic,  tightened  Harborford’s 
throat,  then  subsided  as  he  returned 
like  one  hypnotized  to  the  tracing. 
“But  what  I don’t  understand  is 
how,  having  had  such  a thought,  I 
don’t  remember  it  . . . how  I came 
not  to  record  it.” 

“But  a person  has  so  many  thou- 
sands of  thoughts,  so  many  tens  of 
thousands — ” Without  having  in- 
tended to,  Blacklaw  found  himself 
trying  to  reassure  the  other. 

“Every  one  of  which  tens  of 
thousands  I have  studied  and  dock- 
eted— No!” 

“It  might  have  been  uncon- 
scious— ” Blacklaw  felt  foolish 
making  these  amateurish  sugges- 
tions, yet  he  didn’t  stop. 

“Impossible!  Then  the  trace 
would  be  black  and  small.  This 
has  the  faintness  and  large  size  of 
a generalization.  It  is  a master- 
thought — something  I would  never 
forget.  I can  readily  recognize  the 
lesser  thoughts  from  which  it 
springs  and  which  it  sums  up.  They 
are,  in  fact,  my  own  cases — those 
subjects,  including  myself,  which  I 
studied  so  exhaustively.”  He  fe- 
verishly scrutinized  the  tracing. 
“There  must  be  inconsistency  in- 
dications. There  must  be!” 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  at  Black- 
law. It  was  as  if  he  had  just  real- 
ized that  he  was  talking  to  someone 
and  that  someone  was  a compara- 
tive stranger. 

Blacklaw  was  faintly  aware  that 

»*> 


there  were  no  more  sounds  coming 
from  the  far  desk.  He  got  the  im- 
pression that  the  dark,  wiry  man 
was  peering  at  them  curiously. 

A little  unsteadily  Harborford 
got  to  his  feet. 

“I  am  sorry,”  he  said,  “but  this 
has  rather  disturbed  me.  If  we 
could  continue  the  interview  at 
some  other  time — ?” 

“We  spoke  of  possibly  having 
another  session  tomorrow,”  Black- 
law suggested  easil_y. 

Harborford  nodded  in  relief. 
“That  would  be  better,”  he  said. 
“Much  better.” 

As  Blacklaw  went  out,  his  last 
backward  glimpse  was  of  Harbor- 
ford’s  bullet  head  hung  broodingly 
over  the  tracing. 

The  press  of  unexpected  work 
delayed  the  interviewer’s  return  an 
additional  day.  When  he  entered 
the  workroom,  Harborford  was  sit- 
ting with  bowed  head  at  his  desk. 
Blacklaw  got  the  eerie  impression 
that  he  had  stayed  there  in  the  same 
position,  the  whole  intervening 
time. 

Kesserik  and  Madderlee — a large 
sandy-skinned  man,  the  director  of 
the  Institute  for  Thought  Research 
— were  standing  by  the  far  desk. 
They  glanced  around  quickly  as 
Blacklaw  came  in. 

Harborford  looked  up.  His  hag- 
gardness was  shocking.  The  tired 
eyes  widened.  He  got  up  slowly, 
his  hand  heavily  clutching  the  desk, 

“Mr.  Blacklaw?  I ani  glad — ” 

In  a dull  sort  of  way  he  really 
seemed  to  be. 

After  they  had  sat  down,  he  ap- 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCK-FTCTION 


peared  immediately  to  sink  back 
into  a deep  and  unpleasant  reverie. 
Only  his  eyes  showed  occasional 
activity,  peering  sharply  from  side 
to  side  of  a lonely  road  late  at 
night.  Involuntarily  Blacklaw  fol- 
lowed his  glance.  Of  course  there 
was  nothing. 

Kesserik  and  Madderlee  quietly 
left  the  room. 

When  Harborford  finally  began 
to  talk,  it  was  in  a fatigued  and 
toneless  voice,  very  low.  Obviously 
any  thought  of  an  article  for  the 
Newsbeam  was  a million  miles 
away.  Pie  might  have  been  talking 
to  the  wall. 

“I  can’t  interpret  that  trace.  I’ve 
tried  every  way  and  I’ve  failed.” 

His  full  gaze  fixed  on  Blacklaw’s 
pearl-gray  tunic,  stayed  there.  He 
.stopped  talking.  Blacklaw  shifted 
uneasily. 

“Mr.  Blacklaw,  would  you  kindly 
smooth  out  your  tunic?”  the  scien- 
tist requested  quietly. 

Mystified,  Blacklaw  complied. 

Harborford  went  on,  “I’ve  spent 
flours  in  the  projectorium.  I’ve  got 
several  repeats  of  the  trace,  but  I 
can’t  catch  the  thought  that  goes 
with  it.  My  own  master-thought, 
and  I can’t  catch  it.”  Again  he 
stopped  and  his  eyes  moved.  “Mr, 
Blacklaw,  would  you  mind  shifting 
your  chair  a little?  Your  shadow 
on  that  globe — Thank  you.” 

“But,  surely,”  Blacklaw  remarked 
gropingly,  “just  one  thought — It 
can’t  be  so  important — ” 

Plarborford  slowly  shook  his 
head.  “The  mind  must  be  com- 
pletely bare.  If  only  one  door  is 
left  open  for  the  unknown  to  slip 


through,  it’s  as  bad  as  a thousand. 
And  this  is  a master-thought — my 
mind’s  final  comment  on  my  most 
important  studies.”  He  paused. 
“And  it  must  be  true.  I’ve  searched 
and  searched  for  inconsistency  in- 
dication and  I can’t  find  any. 

“And  I don’t  know  what  the 
thought  is.” 

He  looked  hopelessly  at  Blacklaw, 

Then  his  eyes  started  to  move 
again. 

As  soon  as  Harborford  had  made 
himself  decide  to  go  home  and  get 
some  sleep  he  felt  better.  After 
all,  he  couldn’t  stay  at  the  Institute 
forever.  And  the  workroom  was 
beginning  to  get  on  his  nerves.  It 
was  beginning  to  get  too  much  into 
his  mind,  like  a room  in  which  a 
sleeper  wakes  and  lies  drowsily 
peering  at  the  walls. 

Of  course  it  was  hard  to  admit 
even  temporary  defeat,  even  harder 
perhaps  than  he  tried  to  pretend  to 
himself.  But  it  was  no  use  trying 
to  go  on  fagged  like  this.  Already 
he  had  caught  Kesserick  and  Mad- 
derlee giving  him  queer  glances. 
If  only  that  interviewer  fellow  had 
known  more  about  thought- 
research — somehow  he  could  talk 
to  him.  He  wished  he  had  stayed 
longer. 

Pie  lingered,  puttering  aimlessly. 
Averting  his  eyes,  he  arranged  the 
tracings  on  his  desk  in  neat,  mean- 
ingless piles. 

He  was  getting  middle-aged,  he 
realized.  Pie  couldn’t  stand  up  to 
a strain  like  this  as  he  had  once 
been  able  to — as  when,  in  a sani- 
tarium bedroom,  he  had  fought  the 


THOUGHT 


black-shrouded  mind-devils. 

He  shut  the  door  on  that  mem- 
ory, leaned  against  it. 

His  wife  must  be  worried  about 
him,  he  told  himself.  She  couldn’t 
have  missed  the  anxiety  in  his  voice 
when  he  had  called  to  tell  her  he 
was  working  overnight. 

And  he  really  needed  the  security 
of  home  very  badly. 

Still  he  lingered  by  his  desk, 
shifting  from  foot  to  foot. 

Then  lie  noticed  that,  with  the 
sunset,  shadows  had  grown  in  all 
the  corners,  were  sprouting  like 
vines  across  walls  and  floor.  Vines 
ali  of  one  peculiar  shape. 

His  footsteps  across  the  room  and 
down  the  corridor  had  the  rapid, 
plunging  rhythm  of  panic. 

One  of  the  Institute’s  private  jet- 
ters  was  waiting  outside  with  a 
pilot.  But  now  that  he  was  in  the 
open  air,  Harborford  again  de- 
layed, looking  around  at  the  pano- 
rama, broken  at  a few  places  by 
towering  skvlons,  of  forest  and  low 
hills,  soft  in  the  sunset,  trying  to 
let  its  peace  sink  into  him. 

His  eyes  were  heavy  and  aching 
with  fatigue.  He  experienced  an 
illusion  with  which  he  was  familiar 
and  which  did  not  frighten  him. 
Across  every  object  lie  viewed,  as 
if  faintly  sketched  in  mist,  was  a 
gray  pattern.  Just  as  a person  who 
thinks  chiefly  in  visualized  words 
may  see  objects  accompanied  by 
their  names,  so  Harborford  often 
saw  them  long  with  a ghost  of  their 
thought-traces. 

Another  thought-trace  tried  to 
creep  into  his  mind — an  uglily 
humped  one  with  five  subordinate 

92 


undulations  apparent  to  the  expert, 
and  jagged  spindles  toward  either 
end.  Redfield  Indications  and  Har- 
borford-m  Halo  very  marked. 

He  suppressed  it. 

He  decided  that  a little  of  the 
peacefulness  of  the  landscape  was 
filtering  through  to  him. 

Then  he  noticed  darker  shadows 
marching  down  the  hills  below  the 
sunset’s  line  of  fire,  collecting  at 
the  edge  of  the  forest,  lurking 
among  the  trees,  gathering  strength 
for  a final  undulating  rush  at  the 
Institute.  An  army  of  humped 
shadows,  all  alike. 

He  ducked  into  the  jetter.  Al- 
most with  the  first  smooth  upward 
swoop,  fatigue  got  in  its  hammer- 
blow.  He  slept. 

The  soft  shock  of  landing  awak- 
ened him  with  jangling  nerves,  his 
mind  refreshed  too  soon. 

He  told  himself  it  was  good  to 
get  home. 

He  thanked  the  pilot  and  went 
inside.  .His  wife  greeted  him  with 
hardly  a trace  of  anxiety.  She 
knew  that  he  liked  her  to  be  very 
calm  and  untroubled. 

He  told  her  nothing.  They  talked 
of  inconsequential  matters.  He  be- 
gan to  absorb  the  feeling  of  home 
into  him.  He  began  to  feel  safe. 

Halfway  through  dinner  he  no- 
ticed something  repeated  at  regular 
intervals  in  the  restful  wall-pattern 
of  leaves  and  branches.  An  uglily 
humped  curve  in  one  of  the  twigs. 

He  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

His  wife  followed  him  to  his 
study.  She  no  longer  concealed  her 
anxiety.  He  felt  her  arm  around 
him,  her  cheek  close  to  his,  the 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


touch  of  her  lovely  hair,  graying 
now. 

“What  is  it?” 

He  felt  close  to  her.  He  almost 
felt  he  could  tell  her  about  it.  In 
fact,  he  turned  and  started  to. 

Then  he  saw,  in  the  smooth  pile 
of  her  gray'  hair,  a certain  pattern. 

That  did  away  with  any  possibil- 
ity of  confidences.  Though  they 
talked  for  a while  in  a general  way 
— and  at  a distance — of  his  fatigue 
and  need  for  some  sort  of  vacation. 

Being  cooped  up  alone  all  night 
in  his  study  was  hard.  Harborford 
wished  he  had  not  slept  in  the 
jetter.  But  at  least  the  walls  were 
unpatterned,  and  there  was  enough 
light  to  kill  almost  all  shadows.  He 
wanted  to  get  out  his  pipe,  but  that 
would  mean  twisting  curls  of 
smoke.  When  he  tried  to  read, 
weariness  made  the  projected  let- 
ters run  together  suggestively. 

His  mind  was  abnormally  active. 
It  kept  visualizing  the  universe,  the 
world,  the  past,  his  life,  his  re- 
searches, his  thoughts  and  their 
traces.  Everything  clear  as  crystal, 
except  for  one  inscrutable,  humped 
trace  that  wriggled  through  them 
all. 

Toward  morning  he  got  a little 
sleep. 

He  awoke  feeling  a little  more 
detached.  He  could  see  plainly  now 
that  he  really  needed  a vacation. 
He  had  been  plugging  away  too 
uninterruptedly  at  his  research.  He 
needed  a day  of  idle  roving,  free 
from  routine  and  the  sense  of  driv- 
ing purpose,  time  to  let  his  mind 
run  down.  Perhaps  several  days. 


It  was  exciting  getting  into  his 
flying  togs.  He  hadn't  had  them 
on  for  over  a year.  Pie  recorded  a 
brief  message  for  his  wife  and  got 
out  before  the  dew  was  off  the 
grass. 

He  gunned  his  field  and  the  house 
dropped  away  as  if  slipped  under 
a giant’s  reducing  glass.  Pie  felt, 
exhilaratingly,  the  weight  of  his 
blood  in  his  veins  and  his  flesh  on 
his  bones.  He  plummeted  up  a 
thousand  feet  and  hung. 

The  landscape  stretched  out  soft 
and  greeny-gray  and  faintly  hazed, 
as  if  still  drunk  with  sleep.  In  the 
distance  streams  of  workers  were 
swirling  toward  the  skylons,  but 
here  the  air  was  clear. 

He  had  forgotten  how  good  it 
was  to  stand  on  air. 

Inland,  rolling  hills  stretched  off 
enticingly  toward  a horizon  mys- 
teriously veiled  with  low  lacy 
clouds.  He  headed  toward  it. 

Then  in  a moment  he  had  swung 
around  in  a close,  racking  semicir- 
cle and  headed  for  the  sea. 

The  low  lacy  clouds  had  all  been 
of  one  shape. 

A few  minutes  of  blind  plunging 
flight  put  him  over  water.  He  could 
look  down  and  see  shoals  of  fishes, 
distinct  in  the  clear  depths,  and — 
off  to  one  side — an  all-media  craft 
exuberantly  porpoise-plunging. 

He  kept  on  like  a rocket  that 
doesn’t  know  whither  or  why. 

This  way  the  horizon  was  clear. 
The  low  sun  turned  the  long  ripple 
edges  into  rosy  veins.  A maze  of 
curves. 

All  alike. 

Just  in  time  he  reestablished  con- 


THOUGBT 


»9 


trol  over  liis  actions  and  came  out 
of  his  breakneck  plunge  to  drift 
gasping  a few  yards  above  the 
fishes,  who  scattered  from  his 
shadow. 

With  the  suddenness  of  a revela- 
tion, he  realized  that  the  whole  idea 
of  a vacation  had  been  a mistake. 
He  must  get  back  to  the  Institute 
and  lick  this  thing. 

As  soon  as  he  had  made  the  deci- 
sion he  felt  better.  The  features 
of  the  landscape  no  longer  took  on 
shapes  that  weren’t  there,  as  he 
streaked  steadily  along.  They 

94 


stood  out  sharp  and  real,  what  they 
should  be  and  nothing  more. 

He  stripped  off  his  togs  and  hur- 
ried to  the  workroom  without  see- 
ing anyone. 

He  eagerly  picked  up  the  first 
tracing  on  his  desk  and  stared  at  it. 

He  continued  to  stare  at  it. 

Fie  threw  it  aside  and  snatched 
up  another. 

And  another. 

And  another. 

Black  and  gray,  large  and  small, 
dim  and  distinct,  singly  and 
grouped,  memory  traces,  sensation 
traces,  unconscious  traces,  deduction 
traces,  synthesis  traces,  writhing, 
marching,  crowding,  as  if  there 
were  no  other  thought  in  the  whole 
universe— -it  was  everywhere.  That 
cme  humped  trace. 

Kesserik  and  Madderlee  heard 
the  crazy  noises  and  the  fall,  and 
came  running. 

“Then  it's  fairly  certain  he  will 
recover?”  Blacklaw’s  voice  ex- 
pressed concern. 

“Absolutely.”  Madderlee’s  nod 
was  reassuringly  emphatic.  “He 
should  be  out  of  the  sanitarium  in 
a month.  Though  whether  he’ll 
ever  return  to  thought  research  is 
quite  another  matter,  since  his 
breakdown  seems  to  have  been 
linked  up  very  intimately  with  some 
phase  of  his  work.”  He  glanced 
curiously  at  Blacklaw,  and  Kesser- 
ick  did  likewise.  “We’re  hoping 
you’ll  be  able  to  throw'  some  light 
on  that  point.” 

The  three  men  were  sitting  in 
the  workroom,  near  Flaborford’s 
desk. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Blacklaw  hesitated.  He  said, 
"Ordinarily  you’d  be  in  a position 
to  know  much  more  about  it  than 
a comparative  stranger  like  my- 
self.” 

"Ordinarily.  He  was  not  a secre- 
tive man.  But  those  last  two 
days — ” Madderlee  threw  up  his 
hands. 

Blacklaw  addressed  them  both. 
"How  much  do  you  know?” 
Madderlee  looked  at  Kesserik. 
“Very  little,”  the  dark  assistant 
replied  rapidly.  "He  was  very 
much  concerned  about  some  point 
in  his  work.  We  spent  forty 
straight  hours  here  and  in  the  pro- 
Jectorium,  mostly  taking  tracings  of 
his  thoughts.  He  wouldn’t  tell  me 
what  he  was  after  and  he  didn’t 
give  me  a chance  to  examine  the 
tracings.  I got  the  impression  he 
was  apprehensive  about  something. 
Then  he  went  home.  Early  next 
morning  he  came  back  and — it  hap- 
pened.” 

Blacklaw  looked  at  Madderlee. 
"Did  he  tell  you  anything  when 
you  saw  him  yesterday?” 

"Only  that  he  would  never  again 
have  anything  to  do  with  thought 
research.  They  didn’t  let  me  talk 
with  him  much,  but  he  was  very 
eager  to  tell  me  that.  I’d  intended 
suggesting  that  we  take  tracings  to 
help  in  analyzing  his  case,  but  his 
attitude  pretty  well  ruled  that  out.” 
Blacklaw  turned  to  Kesserik. 
"Did  you  examine  those  last  trac- 
ings afterwards?” 

“Of  course.  But  they  were 
strangely  unhelpful.  A lot  of 
thoughts  concerning  his  research 
and  special  cases.  Marked  tension 


indications  and  neurotic  groupings. 
But  nothing  to  give  me  a definite 
line  on  what  was  causing  him  such 
anxiety.” 

Blacklaw  stood  up  and  moved  be- 
hind the  desk.  "Well,  gentlemen,” 
he  said,  “Harborford  did  tell  me  a 
little  more  than  he  revealed  to 
either  of  you.  It’s  my  idea  that  he 
became  obsessed  with  one  of  his 
own  thought-traces  which  he 
couldn’t  interpret  or  consciously 
recognize.” 

Kesserik  pursed  his  lips,  smiling 
queer ly.  "Hm-in-m — barely  pos- 

sible, I suppose.  Though  I 
wouldn’t  think  you’d  ever  get  the 
old  boy  to  admit  it.” 

Madderlee  asked.  "What  trace? 
You’ve  looked  through  those  on  his 
desk.  He  had  them  scattered  all 
over  the  place  when  the  seizure 
occurred.  Were  you  able  to  recog- 
nize it  again  ?”  he  sounded  skeptical. 

Blacklaw  nodded.  "Solely  be- 
cause it  was  identical  with  a pattern 
in  one  of  my  own  thought-tracings, 
which  Harborford  made  to  give  me 
a demonstration.  The  same  circum- 
stances enabled  me  to  make  an 
amateur’s  stab  at  interpreting  it.” 

He  picked  up  the  top  tracing  and 
handed  it  to  Kesserik,  indicating  a 
misty,  humped  curve. 

The  assistant  scanned  it  intently, 
then  shook  his  head  and  broke  into 
a smile,  letting  the  tracing  slip  to 
his  knee.  “No,  Mr.  Blacklaw,  you 
must  be  mistaken.  This  trace 
could  never  have  puzzled  Harbor- 
ford for  a moment.  Why,  even  I 
can  interpret  it,  and  without  any 
reference  material.”  He  picked  up 
the  tracing.  “It’s  simply — ” 


THOUGHT 


en 


“Wait  a minute.”  said  Blacklaw. 
“If  my  idea  is  right,  it  is  a trace 
whose  meaning  would  be  very  ob- 
vious to  any  thought-research  man 
— except  Harborford.” 

He  took  a few  steps.  “I  know 
I'm  just  a layman,”  lie  said,  “and 
what  I’m  going  to  say  is  not  at  all 
original,  but  it’s  something  you  fel- 
lows probably  lose  sight  of  at  times, 
because  you’re  so  close  to  your 
work. 

“Thought  is  different  from  every 
other  object  of  man’s  research. 
Stars,  atoms,  amoebas,  even  body 
cells — they’re  all  outside  the  mind. 
But  in  analyzing  his  thoughts,  man 
is  analyzing  his  own  analyzing  ap- 
paratus. So  it  always  stays  one 
jump  ahead  of  him. 

“Let’s  suppose  there  was  a 
scientist  who  knew  everything,  who 
understood  the  whole  universe  per- 
fectly, Well  and  good.  But  then 
who  would  understand  the  scientist  ? 
He  couldn’t,  because  his  own  un- 
derstandings of  himself  would  con- 
stitute new  data  requiring  analysis. 
He  couldn’t  ever  get  ahead  of  the 
game.” 

Madderlee  and  Kesserik  were 
obviously  interested,  though  they 
still  looked  skeptical. 

“When  Harborford  claimed  to 
be  able  to  catch  any  thought,  he  was 
putting  himself  in  the  place  of  that 
hypothetical  scientist — and  without 
understanding  the  whole  universe 
by  a long  shot.  He  claimed  to  be 
able  to  keep  ahead  of  the  game.  He 
thought  he  had  his  thoughts  all 
neatly  taped  and  docketed,  and  for 
that  affront  his  thoughts  took  a re- 

THE 


venge — a rather  nasty  one,  because 
it  was  so  simple. 

“He  found  the  trace  of  a thought 
springing  from  his  research.  It 
was  a master-thought — his  mind’s 
final  comment  on  his  life’s  work. 
There  was  no  evidence  of  illogic  or 
inconsistency  in  its  pattern — he 
couldn't  get  rid  of  it  that  way.  So, 
because  it  was  a thought  which 
knocked  all  his  arrogant  claims  into 
a cocked  hat,  he  tried  to  suppress 
it  from  his  consciousness.  He  re- 
fused to  recognize  its  meaning — 
and  as  a result  it  became  an  obses- 
sive shadow  which  terrified  and 
eventually  overwhelmed  him." 

An  odd  thing  happened.  Mat- 
terlee  still  looked  skeptical  but  Kes- 
serik's  attitude  had  changed  com- 
pletely. He  was  nodding  excitedly. 

Blacklaw  said,  “It  was  a simple 
thought.  You  and  I wouldn’t  have 
found  it  in  the  least  unusual  or 
frightening.  But  I want  you  to  put 
yourselves  in  Harborford’s  posi- 
tion. A man  with  an  almost  frantic 
hatred  of  any  dark  corners  in  the 
mind,  a man  who  had  spent  two 
years  in  a sanitarium  and  had  an 
overpowering  fear  of  anything  ab- 
normal or  hidden  in  his  thought 
processes,  a man  who  had  staked 
everything  on  his  ability  to  lay  his 
mind  completely  bare  . . . and  then 
for  that  man  to  find  in  his  mind, 
springing  logically  from  its  experi- 
ences, this  thought  of  all  thoughts.” 

He  paused.  “You  interpret  it, 
Kesserik.” 

Kesserik  looked  at  the  trace  and 
read : “There  are  thoughts  in  your 
mind  that  you  will  never  catch.” 
END. 


93 


ASTOUNDING  SO  IT.  NO  E-FICTION 


jfefaiud  TUB  S80H j 

85?  .-at  :'4 


FUEL 

FOR  ARGUMENT 


W i **  I 


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Address 


In  Times  to  Come 

Isaac  Asimov,  as  lias  been  mentioned  here  before,  is  fairly  busy  on 
more  vital  duties  than  spinning  yarns  of  the  far  future.  He’s  trying  to 
help  assure  a more  immediate  future.  But  he  does  get  some  free  time. 
Somewhere  he  found  enough  to  do  another  Foundation  story — which, 
judging  by  requests  received,  should  be  pleasant  news.  This  one  is  titled 
“The  Big  and  The  Little,”  and  concerns  the  battle  between  atomic  genera- 
tors— generators,  on  one  side,  that  towered  six  stories  high,  could  throw  a 
defensive  screen  around  a planet,  move  an  asteroid,  or  incinerate  a world. 
On  the  other  side,  the  generators  were — for  lack  of  the  necessary  raw 
materials  and  resources — walnut  size  things,  devices  that  could  throw  a 
defensive  screen  around  one  man,  move  an  automobile,  or  make  a kitchen 
paring  knife  of  atomic  force.  The  battle  between  the  giants  and  the 
midges  could  have  only  one  final  conclusion — as  you’ll  realize  after  you’ve 
read  the  yarn. 

Did  you  find  Raymond  F.  Jones’  set-up  in  “Renaissance”  in  this  issue 
interesting?  Next  month’s  installment  will  make  the  whys  of  that  situa- 
tion a lot  clearer.  The  original  concept  of  Kronweld  was  scientific,  ex- 
tremely sound,  and  well  planned.  The  thing  that  ruined  the  whole  mag- 
nificent plan  was  the  unsuspected  presence  of  the  radiations  in  Kronweld 
that  made  human  birth  impossible  there.  But  the  plan — ? Sorry  we 
couldn’t  run  it  in  one  piece,  but  it’s  over  100,000  words  long — more  than 
one  full  issue  of  the  magazine ! 

The  Editor. 


THE  ANALYTICAL  LABORATORY 

There  was  a fairly  heavy  vote  on  the  April  issue,  and  a quite  consistent 
choice — particularly  as  to  first  place  gs  against  places  two  and  three,  and 
four,  five  and  six.  Properly,  it  might  be  said  that  #1  was  “The  Change- 
ling”; # 2 and  #3  were  “The  Long  Way”  and  “The  Bureaucrat,”  with 
the  edge  going  to  “The  Long  Way";  and  #5  and  #6  almost  split  between 
“Lobby”  and  “Invariant.”  The  exact  scores  were : 


Place 

Story 

Author 

Points 

1. 

The  Changeling 

A.  E.  van  Vogt 

1.80 

2. 

The  Long  Way 

George  O.  Smith 

2.6S 

3. 

The  Bureaucrat 

Malcolm  Jameson 

2,75 

4, 

Sanity 

Fritz  Leiber 

3.6 

5. 

Lobby 

Cli  fiord  D.  Simak 

4.8 

6. 

Invariant 

Johti  Pierce 

4.9 

ASTOUNDXt  G S4UJ5N OK  FT CTI ON 


Sense  of  Direction 


Sperry  Gyro 

The  simplest  imaginable  mechanism 
— but  it  has  a sense  of  direction  that 
can  guide  ships  at  sea — or* in  space! 


Sperry  Gyro 


The  aircraft  turn  and  bank  indica- 
tor uses  the  gyro  to  supple  an  up- 
and-down  sense  fog  can't  confuse. 


Of  all  the  things  known  to  man 
today,  only  one  has  an  inherent 
sense  of  direction ; the  gyroscope  is 
enormously  valuable  to  men  today 
because  it,  and  it  alone,  can  furnish 
mechanism  with  an  infallible  sense 
of  orientation.  The  magnetic  com- 
pass needle  has  a secondhand  direc- 
tional sense,  in  that  it  tends  to  align 
itself  with  the  lines  of  force  of 
Earth's  magnetic  field,  but  that 
magnetic  field  is  north  and  south 
only  under  exceptional  local  con- 
ditions. In  far  north-central  Can- 
ada the  compass  would,  as  a matter 
of  fact,  serve  nicely  to  indicate  up- 
and-down,  but  certainly  not  north 
and  south. 

A gyro's  tendency  to  maintain  its 
axis  of  rotation  always  in  the  same 
line  can  he  used  in  innumerable 
ways.  If  forced  to  change  its  axis 
of  rotation,  it  reacts  in  a peevish 
twist  at  right  angles  to  the  force 
applied — and  doesn’t  yield  to  the 
actual  motivating  force.  The  sta- 
bility of  even  a small  gyro  is  startl- 
ing ; a six-inch,  ten-pound  gyro  can 
effortlessly  deflect  the  efforts  of  a 
powerful  man — can,  if  it  is  spun 
swiftly  enough,  support  sew.al 
tons  of  load.  The  gyrocompass, 
used  in  all  submarines  and  war- 
ships of  major  size,  and  in  many 
merchant  ships,  is  dependent  on  One 
small  gyroscope,  and  one  very,  very 
large  one.  The  small  one  is  mounted 
in  special  trunions,  with  multiple 
electric  relay  contacts,  on  the  large 
one — the  Earth.  There  is  one,  and 
only  one  axis  of  rotation  which  the 
compass  gyro  can  assume  without 
being  disturbed  by  the  Earth’s  ro- 
tation— its  axis  therefore  seeks  and 


Sperry  Uyro 


The  gyro  wheels  must  turn  at  extremely  high  speeds  for  maximum  stability. 
The  accuracy  of  manufacture,  perfection  of  balance  and  trueness  of  bear- 
ings must  be  maintained  at  an  equal  extreme  of  high  precision  quality. 

finds  a line  of  rotation  exactly  par-  - — nor'  is  the  magnetic  compass, 

ailel  to  the  Earth’s.  The  short-  Planes  carry  too  much  massive 

time  bouncing,  swaying,  pitching,  steel,  electrical  lines,  and  move 

weaving,  rolling  and  yawing  of  a from  one  magnetic- zone  to  another 

ship  it  can,  and  does,  simply  ignore ; too  rapidly  for  easy  or  dependable 

the  steady,  irresistible,  single-  magnetic  compass  work, 

minded  urge  of  the  Earth’s  rotation  Planes  have  for  some  years  used 
makes  it  assume  the  one  possible  . gyroscopes  in  several  forms,  bow- 
line of  no  interference.  The  gyro-  ever.  First  was  the  turn-and-bank 

compass  thereafter  points  true  indicator;  Man’s  own  up-and-down 

north  and  south  so  long  as  its  rota-  sense  is  a wonderful  thing,  but  has 

tion  continues.  a r.asty  habit  of  going  completely 

The  gyrocompass  is  not  suitable  crazy  when  flying  in  a fog.  A gyro 

for  use  in  airplanes,  unfortunately  never  can  see  anyway ; a small  gyro 


The  marine  gyrocompass  points  true 
north,  not  magnetic  north,  and  works 
equally  accurately  in  a submarine,  a 
battleship,  a freighter  loaded  with 
highly-magnetic  tanks,  or  a non- 
magnetic ship — but  not  in  planes. 

wheel,  started  spinning  on  a verti- 
cal axis  in  freely  turning  gymbals, 
will  stay  on  that  vertical  axis  no 
matter  how  the  plane  may  pitch, 
roll,  or  turn  about  it.  A pendulum 
will,  of  course,  point  downward 
too — but  if  it  once  gets  rocking 
back  and  forth  it  goes  crazy  and 
stays  crazy;  a gyro  simply  holds 
stubbornly  to  one  line  of  direction. 

The  directional  gyro  has  been  a 
standard  aircraft  compass  for  years 
— a compromise  between  a gyro- 
compass and  the  magnetic  compass, 
in  a way.  It  was  simply  a small. 


heavy,  freely  suspended  gyro  which 
could  be  started  rotating,  pointing 
its  axis  of  rotation  in  the  direction 
the  pilot  intended  to  go.  Every 
now'  and  then  the  pilot  changed  the 
direction  of  directional  gyro — be- 
cause the  plane  flies  a great-circle 
course,  not  a straight  line.  And  the 
directional  gyro,  with  its  mind  on 
the  far  stars,  maintained  a darned 
good  approximation  of  an  absolute 
direction.  It  might  be  pointing 
parallel  to  the  Earth’s  surface  when 
you  started,  but  if  you  left  it  un- 
changed for  six  hours,  it  would  be 
pointing  straight  up — same  direc- 
tion. 

“George,”  the  automatic  pilot, 
had  sense-organs  consisting  of  a 
fine  collection  of  variously  oriented 
gyroscopes — and  a resultant  sense 
of  orientation  so  fine  no  human 
pilot  could  match  the  steadiness  of 
automatic  flight.  (Though  George 
was  just  a little  stupid  about  getting 
the  hang  of  a great-circle  course. 
George  liked  straight  lines.) 

What  was  really  needed  was 
something  with  the  steadiness  of  the 
directional  gyro,  but  something 
that  would  keep  the  Earth  in  mind, 
not  simply  point  at  some  location 
on  the  far  side  of  .infinity.  The 
magnetic  compass  was  fine  for  that 
—it  not  only  kept  the  home  planet 
in  mind,  though;  the  darned  thing 
nodded  to  every  iron-ore  deposit, 
dense  rock  formation,  and  in  gen- 
eral behaved  like  a dog  on  a leash 
• — going  from  here  to  yonder  all 
right,  but  yearning  toward  all  points 
of  local  interest  on  the  way. 

The  new  Gyro-fluxgate  compass, 
a Bendix  product,  hitches  a gyro 


1<V> 


\ « frn i • v t v n u» .virTinv 


Bendix 

Testing  the  new  Bendix  gyro-dux  gate  compass  in  a test-rig  that,  by  means 
of  the  large  electromagnetic  coils,  creates  a coin  flex  magnetic  field  acting 
in  any  direction  or  combination  at  will.  They  can  be  used  to  exactly  cancel 
out  the  Earth's  magnetic  field  within  the  test-rig  to  make  basic  adjustments. 


to  the  magnetic  field  to  hold  it 
steady  when  the  plane  moves  vio- 
lently. Instead  of  using  a magnetic 
needle,  it  uses  a'  highly  ingenious 
sort  of  transformer.  The  efficiency 
of  a transformer  decreases  rapidly 
if  the  transformer  core  becomes 
saturated,  or  partly  saturated  with 
DC  magnetic  fields;  permalloy  is  a 
magnetic  alloy  so  easily  magnetized 
that  it  is  readily  and  markedly  af- 
fected by  the  Earth’s  magnetic 
field.  Hence  a transformer  with  a 
permalloy  core  will  be  considerably 
less  efficient  if  the  core  is  north  and 
south — magnetic — than  when  it  is 

THE 


east  and  west.  The  actual  intensity 
of  Earth’s  field  varies  widely,  but 
if  three  such  transformers,  mounted 
■in  an  equilateral  triangle,  are  used 
to  feed  a vacuum  tube  amplifier,  the 
ratio  of  the  current  produced  in 
each  transformer  rather  than  the 
absolute  value  thereof  will  give  the 
information  as  to  the  relative 
orientation  of  the  Earth’s  field  and 
each  of  the  three  units.  The  ratio 
will  depend  solely  on  direction,  un- 
influenced by  absolute  intensity. 
The  output  of  the  vacuum  tube  am- 
plifier can  give  the  indication  on 
one  or  a half  dozen  instruments. 
END. 


SENSE  OP  DIRECTION 


103 


Headstones 

for 

Astronomers 


by  R.  S.  RICHARDSON 

And,  naturally , on  an  astronomical  scale — the  craters  of  the 
Moon,  bearing  the  names  of  astronomers.  But  unlike  ordinary 
headstones,  some  of  these  bear  the  names  of  living  men. 

Photographs  from  the  Mount  Wilson  Observatory 


Perhaps  you  can  recall  stories 
about  the  Moon  that  read  some- 
thing like  this: 

“It  was  with  the  calm  resignation 
of  despair  that  Alan  Dink,  the 
androidal  robot,  surveyed  the 
wreckage  of  his  spaceship.  The 
anterior  portion  was  completely 
shattered  where  the  blunt  nose  of 
the  craft  had  burrowed  into  the 
walls  of  the  crater  Copernicus,”  or, 
“Stop  them  at  any  cost !”  cried 
Captain  Fury.  “Set  off  the  lunar 
flare  on  Tycho  if  need  be!” 

Always  it  is  the  same  old  craters 
that  are  used  for  landing  points 
over  and  over  again — Copernicus, 
Tycho,  and  Plato.  But  if  science- 
fiction  really  wants  to  be  up-to- 

ini 


date— and  certainly  stories  of  the 
future  should  at  least  keep  even 
with  the  present — spaceships  land- 
ing on  the  Moon  should  come  to 
rest  near  such  craters  as  Schia- 
parelli, Benjamin*  Franklin,  and 
Mary  Proctor.  For  the  Historical 
Section  of  the  British  Astronomi- 
cal Association  has  just  issued  a 
report  entitled  “Who’s  Who  In  The 
Moon”  containing  the  official  list 
of  the  names  of  lunar  formations. 
Not  only  are  all  the  old  names  there 
but  in  addition  scores  of  modern 
ones  mingled  with  those  of  classic 
antiquity.  , 

The  Moon  has  long  been  re- 
garded as  the  graveyard  of  as- 
tronomy owing  to  the  custom  of 

A STOCK!*!  NO  s C 1 K NC  E-F I CT I O N 


The  southern  portion  of  the  Moon,  age  twenty-six  days , as  seen  in  the 
100-inch  Mount  Wilson  telescope — not  an  air  photograph  of  Berlin! 


ia'. 


LBATEGNIUS 


- ' rv.  far  -w 


( /(iy  V * 4 . * 

* vfhi*'* 


If  Jr 

BROWN 


The  region  of  the  Moon  near  Tycho  with  a fete  of  the  named  craters 
labeled.  There  are  craters  enough,  of  all  sizes,  to  supply  several  more 
generations  of  astronomers.  Probably  meteors  are  causing  more  even  now. 


♦ FRA  MAURO 


MARE 

NUBIUM 


BENJAMIN 
* GOULD 


♦ ARZACHEL 


♦alphonsus 


♦ PTOLEMAEUS 


♦■HIPPARCHUS 


PICKERING 


\.mW- 

_ a*  jh 

r , * 


/y  T 


P ' 


I f 

C * 


♦ REINHOLD 


♦ JOHANN  ELERT  BODE 


( 

/♦PHILIPP  JOHANN  FAUTH 


PERNICUS 


ERATOSTHENES 


v, . • ' >>  4^  / 

;>•  * ANDRE  MARIE  AMPERE 

, " i * 4 ‘[if  4 U 

♦ ALFRED  RUSSEL  WALLACE 


♦ 


*-  4 


o- 


PYTHEAS 


♦■TIMOCHARIS  ( 

7 ' 


Copernicus  and  Eratosthenes  got  in  early;  the  size  of  the  crater  named  for  an 
astronomer  tends  to  indicate  chronological  place  rather  than  his  importance. 
But  for  whom  will  the  greatest  craters  of  the  unseen  side  of  Luna  be  named ? 


A« T ( > l'  X 1 > I N G SCI13N  C'E-FICTION 


HEADSTONES  FOR  ASTRONOMERS 


The  Moon.  We  can  name  tlic  craters;  tec  can  oc  jairly  certain  that  the 
craters  arc  the  s /'lashes  of  meteor  impacts.  But  a wholly  satisfactory 
explanation  of  the  vast,  almost  perfectly  smooth  “maria”  is  still  missing. 


10s 


A S T 0 1:  X*  D I X G SCIEXTCE-FIC  T I O N 


naming  the  various  formations 
after  noted  astronomers  of  the  past. 
Certainly  it  is  ideally  suited  for  an 
eternal  resting  place  for  no  one 
could  wish  for  a more  quiet  site 
than  the  calm  surface  of  the  Moon 
with  a little  crater  for  a headstone. 
In  fact,  some  astronomers  have  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  select  their  crater 
well  in  advance  to  make  sure  there 
would  be  no  slip-up  after  their 
demise ! 

The  custom  of  naming  the  craters 
after  scientists  and  other  learned 
men  originated  with  Langrenus  of 
Brussels  who  published  a map  of 
the  Moon  in  1645.  Six  years  later 
appeared  the  great  lunar  chart  of 
Riccioli  of  Bologna  who  developed 
the  system  of  Langrenus  of  naming 
craters  after  medieval  and  ancient 
astronomers  as  well  as  his  con- 
temporaries. 

Riccioli  laid  out  his  lunar  ceme- 
tery in  an  orderly  manner  by 
grouping  the  men  together  who 
were  alike  in  their  studies  and  time. 
For  example,  in  the  north  w7e  find 
riato  surrounded  by  his  friends  and 
pupils,  while  in  the  south  Tycho 
Brahe  is  similarly  accompanied  by 
his  disciples.  Since  Riccioli  was  an 
ardent  admirer  of  Tycho’s  he  as- 
signed him  one  of  the  most  con- 
spicuous craters  which  is  so  bright 
as  to  be  visible  to  the  naked  eye  at 
the  full  phase.  Moreover,  Riccioli 
believed  in  Tycho’s  planetary  sys- 
tem as  opposed  to  that  of  Coper- 
nicus even  to  the  extent  of  throw-- 
ing  the  Earth-Movers  over  into  the 
Ocean  of  Storms,  virtually  making 
mere  floating  islands  out  of  them. 


But  he  must  at  least  have  admired 
Copernicus  personally  for  he 
awarded  him  a splendid  crater  that 
is  almost  as  prominent  as  the  one 
he  named  after  Tycho.  Riccioli 
named  another  fine  crater  after  his 
friend  Grimaldi  and  gave  his  own 
name  to  a little  one  near  by. 

Later  selenographers  got  into  the 
habit  of  naming  craters  after  each 
other  as  well  as  adding  new  names 
occasionally  as  their  fancy  dictated, 
until  by  1900  the  face  of  the  moon 
was  in  a state  of  hopeless  confu- 
sion. By  1935  the  International 
Astronomical  Union  decided  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done  about  the 
situation  with  the  result  that  the 
final  official  list  of  six  hundred  nine 
personal  names  applied  to  the  lunar 
formations  is  now'  available.  At- 
tached to  each  name  in  the  cata- 
logue is  a brief  biographical  note 
that  greatly  enhances  its  value. 

Glancing  through  the  names  is  an 
amusing  occupation  in  itself.  Do 
you  remember  the  scene  in  Jules 
Verne’s  “Trip  to  the  Moon”  where 
the  projectile  was  passing  over  the 
crater  called  Hell?  For  the  last 
thirty  years  I had  naturally  sup- 
posed that  this  crater  was  named 
after  the  infernal  regions.  Today 
I discovered  that  the  name  refers 
to  Maximilian  Hell  (1720-1792), 
“a  Jesuit  priest,  also  well-known  as 
Father  Hell,  who  became  Director 
of  the  Vienna  Observatory,  and  dis- 
cussed the  supposed  discovery  of  a 
satellite  of  Venus,  though  he  was 
never  convinced  of  its  existence.” 

Eight  women  have  been  assigned 
craters  in  all.  One  is  Maria 


HEADSTONES  FOK  ASTRONOMERS 


109 


Northern  portion  of  the  Moon,  showing  the  sharp  contrast  of  pitted, 
ragged  craters  and  the  vast,  smooth  “maria:’  Just  above  and  left  of  center 
is  one  that  might  be  called  a small  maria  or  a large  crater — but  the  bottom 
has  the  lakelike  smoothness  of  maria.  Fusion  due  to  impact,  possibly t 


The  south-central  portion  of  the  Moon.  Just  to  the  right  of  center  is  an- 
other lunar  mystery — “The  Railroad,’1  the  straight,  long  line  across  the 
smooth  surface.  At  certain  angles  of  illumination,  the  shadows  thrown  by 
the  sun  show  this  to  be  a wall-like,  flat-topped  something.  Cause  unknown. 


Mitchell  (1818-1889),  Director  of 
the  Vassar  College  Observatory; 
another  is  Catherine  Wolfe  Bruce 
(1816-1900),  noted  for  her  many 
gifts  to  astronomers,  also  honored 
by  having  the  asteroid  Brucia 
named  after  her. 

Among  distinguished  astrono- 
mers of  the  United  States  whose 
names  can  now  be  found  on  the 
lunar  maps  are  those  of  Burnham 
(1838-1921),  the  famous  double 
observer:  Asaph  Hall  ( 1829-1907). 
discoverer  of  the  satellites  of  Mars; 
Simon  Newcomb  (1835-1900), 
who  investigated  the  origin  of  the 
asteroids  and  the  motions  and 
masses  of  Uranus  and  Neptune; 
and  G.  W.  Ritchey  (1864-  ), 

who  figured  the  60-inch  and  100- 
inch  mirrors  of  the  Mount  Wilson 
Observatory  and  built  the  Ritchey- 
Chretien  telescope  of  the  Naval  Ob- 
servatory. 

Two  business  men  who  founded 
large  observatories  have  been  hon- 
ored by  craters.  James  Lick  (1796- 
1876),  who  made  a fortune  in  Cali- 


fornia in  various  enterprises,  lies 
buried  under  the  pier  of  the  36-inch 
refractor  of  the  Lick  Observatory. 
Near  Lick’s  crater  in  the  Mare 
Crisium  is  that  of  Charles  T. 
Yerkes  (1837-1905),  a wealthy 
traction  magnate,  w:bo  donated  the 
funds  for  the  40-inch  refractor  of 
the  Yerkes  ( Ibservatory  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Chicago. 

The  size  of  a crater  is  by  no 
means  proportional  to  the  fame  of 
the  man  whose  name  it  bears. 
Thus  Isaac  Newton  is  a tiny  mark- 
ing so  close  to  the  south  edge  of 
the  disk  that  it  is  scarcely  visible  at 
all.  The  trouble  is  that  all  the  good 
craters  were  taken  long  ago  so  that 
famous  astronomers  of  the  present 
and  future  will  have  to  be  satisfied 
with  insignificant  craterlets  their 
relatives  w’ill  barely  be  able  to  dis- 
cern under  excellent  seeing  condi - 
tions.  But  perhaps  space  travel  will 
open  up  a whole  new  vista  of  head- 
stones on  the  side  of  Diana  etern- 
ally hidden  from  the  earth. 

THE  END. 


ORIGINS  AND  SPECULATIONS 

Since  their  first  discovery,  the  craters  ol  the  Moon  have  been  a subject  of  specu- 
lation. The  natural,  original  assumption  was  that  they  were  volcanic,  craters,  hut 
when  measurement  of  their  extent  became  possible,  this  explanation  failed  flatly. 
Volcanoes  don’t  have  200-miie-diameter  throats.  After  several  centuries  of  study 
and  speculation,  the  cause  of  the  craters  seems  fairly  positively  established.  Exact 
scale-model  duplicates  can  be  produced  by  dropping  a spoonful  of  an  extremely  fine 
powder,  such  as  cement  or  plaster  of  Paris,  onto  a smooth  bed  of  similar  powder 
from  a height  of  several  feet.  The  pebble-thrown-into-mud  system  doesn’t  produce 
exact  duplication,  though  a fair  approximation,  because  of  the  strength-of-materials 
ratios.  The  pebble  has  mechanical  strength  enough  to  resist  such  a puny  impact — 
but  even  the  enormously  tough  nickel-iron  of  meteoric  matter  can’t  offer  appreciable 
resistance  to  a 20  to  60  miles-per-second  impact  into  the  rocks  of  the  Moon.  Sim- 
ilarly, the  spoonful  of  loose  powder  has  no  appreciable'  mechanical  strength,  and 
reacts,  in  scale-model  experiments,  as  the  actual  meteor  would.  Some  lunar  craters 
have  small  peaks  at  their  centers ; this  effect  can  be  produced  by  altering  the  height 
of  fall  of  the  spoonful  of  powder,  and  by  variations  in  the  depth  of  the  powder. 

By  dropping  white  plaster  of  Paris  onto  gray  cement,  an  analysis  of  the  resultant 
distribution  of  meteoric  matter  and  blasted  rock  can  be  made.  The  result  checks 
nicely  with  the  known  distribution  at  Meteor  Crater,  Arizona. 

A*T»r»i)n«j  ar iENOB-PwriioN 


its 


The  Lee  spar  torpedo  in  action  position.  Theoretically — but  not  so  prac- 
tically— the  extended  spar  kept  the  explosion  from  sinking  the  attacker. 


“Torpedo!” 

by  WILLY  LEY 


Torpedoes  aren't  so  very  old — that  is,  workable  ones.  But  the 
idea  is  as  old  as  gunpowder.  And  “ torpedo ” didn't  always 
mean  a miniature  submarine  full  t>f  explosives;  it  used  to  be 
what  we  call  a naval  mine.  When  the  self-propelled  torpedo 
was  made,  it  had  many  rivals,  with  weird  and  wonderful  drivers! 


It  is  purely  an  accident  of  lin- 
guistic development  that  we  speak 
of  an  attack  by  torpedoplanes  in- 
stead of  an  attack  by  Whitehead 
carriers,  and  that  a submarine  com- 
mander reports  he  put  two  tor- 
pedoes into  an  enemy  vessel,  in- 
stead of  two  Whiteheads. 

Such  a development  would  have 
been  possible.  We  are  speaking 
freely  of  “Diesels”  when  we  mean 
Diesel  engines,  and  refrain  from 
calling  Tesla  transformers  “Teslas” 
merely  because  they  are  rare.  We 
have  a tendency  to  call  any  German 
airship  a “Zeppelin,”  while  the  Ger- 
mans, on  the  other  hand,  do  call 


any  airship  by  that  name,  whether 
German  or  not,  whether  of  the  real 
Zeppelin  type  with  internal  skeleton 
or  not.  And  in  any  language  but 
English  X rays  are  referred  to  as 
Rontgen  Rays— in  English  this  is 
the  alternate  name — ignoring  the 
fact  that  Dr.  Rontgen  himself 
wanted  them  to  be  called  X rays. 

In  the  case  of  the  torpedo  the 
linguistic  development  turned  a few 
particularly  inexplicable  corners. 
The  word  “torpedo”  was  intro- 
duced into  military  language  by 
Robert  Fulton  to  describe  an  explo- 
sive underwater  charge,  mostly  in 
the  form  of  a charge  attached  to  a 

tia 


“TOBPEDO !” 


r x-Wj 


Tu/.  (M,)  The  “self-propelling  com-, 
busting  egg”  of  Hasson  Alraimnah, 
proposed  around  1280  A.U.,  was  in- 
tended as  a rocket  torpedo.  It  may 
or  may  not  have  been  actually  built. 


Fig.  (B)  The  Italian  military  en- 
gineer Joanes  de  Fontana,  in  1420', 
sketched  this  wooden  rocket  torpedo, 
camouflaged  f!)  as  a sea-serpent. 
The  dagger  is  intended  to  indicate 
the  constructional  material  is  wood. 


long  pole  which  was  later  termed 
the  Spar  Torpedo.  But  then  torpedo 
began  to  mean  a naval  mine,  Far- 
ragut's  famous  order  “Damn  the 
torpedoes—"  really  means  “disre- 
gard the  minefield." 

Then  the  Scottish  engineer  Rob- 
ert Whitehead  invented  the  “model 
submarine"  now  known  as  torpedo. 
1 don’t  know  whether  Whitehead 
himself  proposed  a special  name  for 
it,  later  it  was  usually  referred  to 
as  "Whitehead  torpedo"  or  “auto- 
motive torepdo.”  Meanwhile  some- 
body had  re-christened  the  station- 
ary torpedoes  into  “mines”  and  the 
term  torpedo  was  available.  It  went 
to  the  one  type  of  “automotive  tor- 
pedoes” which  survived  all  tests  of 
battle,  the  Whitehead. 

The  sentence  implies  that  there 
were  other  forms  of  automotive 
torpedoes  in  use  or  at  least  under 
consideration.  The  implication  is 
correct,  there  were.  Plenty  of  them. 
Some  of  them  were  failures  even  on 
paper.  ( fibers  reached  the  experi- 
mental stage  and  misperformed. 
Again  others  were  even  introduced 
into  service  in  various  countries. 
But  all  of  them  failed  in  the  end, 
except  for  the  one  lonely  survivor 
of  the  inventive  nineteenth  century: 
the  Whitehead. 

The  Whitehead  was  invented  in 
1863  or  in  1865,  depending  on 
whether  you  want  to  use  the  year 
of  completion  of  the  first  model  or 
the  year  during  which  the  work  on 
it  was  begun  as  the  date  of  the  in- 
vention. That  first  model  weighed 
some  three  hundred  pounds,  carried 
a charge  of  eighteen  pounds  of  can- 
non powder  and  developed  a 


“speed”  of  6 m.p.h.  It  took  quite 
a number  of  years  until  the  speed 
and  the  range  had  been  increased  to 
a useful  magnitude,  and  it  was  this 
period  during  which  most  of  the 
rivals  of  the  Whitehead  made  their 
appearance. 

To  very  many  people  White- 
head’s  first  fish  torpedo,  as  it  was 
also  called,  was  not  the  prototype 
of  a weapon  which  would  later  at- 
tain enormous  power  and  efficiency, 
of  a weapon  on  which  the  outcome 
of  a war  might  hinge.  To  them  the 
first  Whitehead  merely  proved  that 
it  could  be  done,  that  the  problem 
of  endowing  a naval  mine  with  mo- 
tive power  of  its  own  could  be 
solved.  Naval  authorities  and  rival 
inventors  alike  subscribe  to  the  idea, 
but  that  did  not  imply  that  they 
also  subscribed  to  the  mechanical 
design. 

But  before  we  go  on  it  might  be 
useful  to  describe  a present  day 
torpedo,  the  fully  developed  White- 
head,  in  outline.  It  is  about  eight- 
een feet  long  and  twenty-one  inches 
in  diameter  and  consists  pricipally 
of  two  parts,  the  “head”  and  the 
body.  There  are  several  types  of 
“heads,”  one  type  which  is  used 
for  target  practice,  another  type 
which  is  used  for  testing  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  torpedo,  and,  finally, 
the  “war  head,”  containing  around 
five  hundred  pounds  of  TNT. 

The  larger  part  of  the  body  is 
simply  a container  for  compressed 
air.  It  is  essentially  this  air  which 
drives  the  turbine  which,  in  turn, 
drives  the  two  propellers  which  ro- 
tate in  opposite  directions  and  fur- 


nish the  torpedo  with  a speed  of 
about  40  m.p.h.  In  order  to  in- 
crease the  expansion  of  the  air  it 
is  heated  by  injecting  a small  quan- 
tity of  fuel — fuel  oil,  gasoline  or 
alcohol — into  the  air  stream  and 
burning  it.  And  in  some  types  a 
thin  stream  of  water  is  injected, 
too,  for  the  purpose  of  producing 
steam  and  thus  increasing  the  vol- 
ume and  pressure  of  the  gaseous 
mixture  still  more.  Then  there  is 
a depth-setting  gear  which  keeps 
the  torpedo  at  the  depth  for  which 
it  has  been  “set”  and  a stearing 
gear  which  maintains  its  direction. 
(A  late  German  wrinkle  is  the  ad- 
dition of  an  acoustic  steering  de- 
vice the  value  of  which  is  doubtful 
in  spite  of  some  successes.) 

This,  then,  is  the  modern  tor- 
pedo, the  first  prototype  of  which 
made  its  first  trial  run  in  1865. 

All  the  essential  features  of  the 
original  invention  are  Robert 
Whitehead’s  even  though  the  idea 
had  a short  and  still  somewhat  ob- 
scure prehistory.  Whitehead,  who 
then  resided  at  Fiume,  had  not  been 
interested  in  torpedo  warfare 
originally,  until  he  was  approached 
by  an  Austrian  army  captain  by  the 
name  of  Luppis.  The  story  is  usu- 
ally told  in  about  the  following 
words:  In  1863  Captain  Luppis 

approached  Whitehead  with  plans 
relating  to  torpedo  design,  trying 
to  interest  the  practicing  engineer 
Whitehead  in  torpedo  warfare  be- 
cause he  felt  that  he,  Luppis,  did 
not  know  enough  about  mechanics 
and  engineering  to  carry  those  plans 
out.  Whitehead  then  went  to  work 
and  the  torpedo  was  the  result.  It 


"TORPEDO  !" 


AST— 5H  115 


was  even  called  the  Whitehead- 
Luppis  torpedo  on  occasion,  so  that 
Luppis  would  not  be  without  honor. 

'The  latter  is  a meritorious 
thought,  but  it  implies  that  the  plans 
brought  by  Luppis  were  his  own 
and  that  the  Luppis  plans  were 
actually  the  plans  of  the  later 
Whitehead  torpedo  minus  mechani- 
cal niceties. 

Actually  the  ideas  which  Luppis 
brought  to  Whitehead  were  plans 
for  a surface  torpedo,  an  explosive- 
laden small  boat  propelled  by  an  un- 
specified type  of  engine.  Besides 
Luppis  acted  only  as  an  intermedi- 
ary, those  plans  he  brought  to 
Whitehead  had  been  found  among 
the  papers  of  a deceased — and 
unnamed — fellow  officer  of  the 
Austrian  Marinebatterien — coastal 
batteries.  Whitehead  took  the  all- 
important  step  of  converting  the 
model  boat  into  a model  submarine. 
It  is  quite  likely  that  Luppis  men- 
tioned this  possibility,  the  idea 
of  a model  submarine  was  then  un- 
der much  discussion  because  of  a 
rather  spectacular  demonstration.  A 
Bavarian  noncommissioned  officer 
by  the  name  of  Wilhelm  Bauer  had 
conceived  the  idea  of  a submarine 
some  time  earlier  and  had  even  built 
a small  submarine  boat  which  sank 
on  its  trial  run.  Next  he  had  built 
a clockwork  driven  model  with 
which  he  traveled  around.  That 
model  submarine  had  been  demon- 
strated on  March  11,  1852,  at 
Trieste  in  the  presence  of  the  Em- 
peror of  Austria. 

Wilhelm  Bauer  later  built  a 
rather  large  submarine  for  the  Rus- 
sians, until  that  Podvodmya  lodka 


tchort — Russian  for  “submarine 

devil’’ — actually  performed  there 
were  many  voices  stating  that  sub- 
marines could  not  work.  But  that 
a model  submarine  was  possible 
could  not  be  doubted  after  that 
demonstration  at  Trieste  and  both 
Luppis  and  Whitehead  must  have 
known  about  it. 

Between  the  completion  of  the 
first  Whitehead  and  its  first  use  in 
battle  there  elapsed  some  fourteen 
years.  The  date  of  the  first  actual 
use  is  May  29,  1877  when  the  Brit- 
ish unarmored  cruiser  Shah  dis- 
charged a Whitehead  against  the 
mutinous  Peruvian  armorclad 
Huascar.  But  the  Huascar  was  fast 
for  its  time,  runing  all  of  eleven 
knots  and  it  evaded  the  deadly  tor- 
pedo by  simply  running  away,  the 
speed  of  the  Whitehead  having  been 
improved  to  only  nine  knots  at  that 
time.  By  a strange  coincidence  the 
Huascar  had  been  built  in  1865,  the 
same  year  in  which  the  first  White- 
head  was  completed.  In  1941  the 
Huascar  was  still  in  commission — 
in  the  Chilean  Navy — and  it  may 
still  find  its  end  by  a Whitehead. 

The  first  successful  use  of  the 
Whitehead  took  place  on  January 
25,  1878,  when  two  Whiteheads 
fired  from  Russian  torpedo  boats 
sank  the  Turkish  monitor  Seife  or 
Seif  a*  The  claim  that  this  sinking 
was  accomplished  by  means  of  spar 
torpedoes  is  probably  based  on  the 
fact  that  most  of  the  Russian  tor- 

* I advise  against  reliance  on  this  name,  the 
transcription  of^  the  Turkish  name  seems  to 
have  gone  haywire.  It  sounds  faintly  Turkish 
but  cannot  be  found  in  a dictionary.  Nor  would 
I take  it  as  a translation  of  whatever  Turkish 
word  it  originally  was,  since  Seife  means 
nothing  in  Russian  and  “soap”  in  German,  an 
unlikely  name. 


ns 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


pedo  boats  were  armed  with  this 
weapon.  But  the  sinking,  accord- 
ing to  contemporary  Russian  and 
German  reports,  must  be  credited 
to  the  then  newly  purchased  White- 
head  torpedoes  of  which  the  whole 
Imperial  Russian  Navy  had  about 
two  score. 

The  main  competitor  of  the 
Whitehead,  as  can  be  seen  from 
these  contradictory  claims,  was  then 
still  the  spar  torpedo,  invented 
originally  by  Robert  Fulton  but 
then  usually  called  the  Lee  Spar 
Torpedo  because  of  an  improved 
American  Civil  War  version. 

Such  spar  torpedoes  had  claimed 


Fig.  (C)  Montgery’s  sketch  of  un- 
derwater launching  tubes  for  rocket 
torpedoes. 


Fig.  (D)  Major  Hunt's  proposed  underwater  launching  tubes  and  rocket 

torpedoes. 


“TORPEDO  I” 


117 


victims  on  both  sides  during  the 
Civil  War,  most  spectacular  among 
them  the  Housatonic.  It  was  sunk 
by  the  Confederate  submarine  Hun- 
ley and  was,  in  a manner  of  speak- 
ing, the  first  ship  to  be  sunk  by  a 
submarine.  The  term  “in  a manner 
of  speaking"  had  to  be  inserted  be- 
cause that  particular  attack  of  the 
* Hurtle y was  not  an  underwater  at- 
tack, even  though  the  Hunley  was  a 
submarine.  Since  the  Hunley  had 
drowned  at  least  thirty-five  men 
during  unsuccessful  trial  runs,  the 
actual  attack  was  made  in  an  awash 
position  and  the  weapon  used  was  a 
spar  torpedo.  Both  vessels  were 
destroyed,  but  only  the  crew  of  the 
Hurtle y was  lost,  that  of  the  II ousa- 
tonic  was  saved  because  the  sink- 
ing occurred  in  only  twenty-three 
feet  of  water. 

Originally  the  Hunley  was  to 
have  used  a towed  mine,  trailing 
some  eight  hundred  feet  behind.  It 
was  to  approach  the  enemy  in  an 
awash  position,  dive  under  the  in- 
tended victim  and  emerge  on  the 
other  side,  thus  using  the  victim  as 


a shield  against  the  explosion  of  its 
own  weapon.  During  experiments 
on  inland,  waterways  this  iaad 
worked  out  nicely,  several  old 
barges  had  been  blown  up  “accord- 
ing to  plan,”  but  the  method  failed 
to  wrork  on  the  choppy  waters  of 
Mobile  Bay.  The  slow  speed  of  the 
hand-cranked  submarine  was  not 
enough  to  keep  the  line  taut,  there 
was  considerable  danger  that  the 
towed  mine  might  strike  the  sub- 
marine towing  it.  For  this  reason 
it  was  discarded  for  the  actual  at- 
tack. 

But  the  idea  was  too  pretty  to  be 
forgotten  completely.  It  cropped 
tip  again  a few  years  later  in  a 
modified  form  as  the  “Harvey  tor- 
pedo.” 

The  Harvey  torpedo,  named 
after  its  inventors,  Commodore 
Frederic  Harvey  and  Captain  John 
Harvey,  was  tried  out  in  British 
tvaters  in  1868.  For  a while  there 
was  considerable  excitement  about 
the  new  weapon,  but  it  seems  that 
that  experiments  did  not  work  out 
quite  as  well  as  had  been  hoped.  The 


Fig.  (E)  Phillips,  around  1870,  proposed  a tozved  torpedo — with  a rocket 

doing  the  towing. 


118 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Fig.  (F)  Weir’s  approached,  the  end  of  the  rocket-propelled  line  of  effort 
in  torpedoes.  Machine  work  was  improving,  making  mechanical  drive 

practicable. 


Harvey  system,  or  better,  one  of  the 
Harvey  systems  since  there  were 
several  modifications,  can  best  be 
compared  with  the  modern  para- 
vane. Each  vessel  was  to  tow  two 
torpedoes,  trailing  some  distance  be- 
hind and  away  from  the  towing  ves- 
sel. As  long  as  the  towing  vessel 
kept  a straight  course  everything 
went  fine,  the  troubles  began  to 
show  when  it  made  a simple  turn 
and  they  multiplied  with  the  diffi- 
culty of  the  maneuver  performed. 
And  the  more  the  tests  progressed 
the  more  obvious  it  became  that  the 
cannons  of  the  intended  victim  were 
likely  to  smash  the  towing  vessel 
before  it  had  approached  sufficiently 
close. 

The  experiments  were  discon- 
tinued then,  one  of  the  contributing 


causes  being  the  invention  of  the 
Whitehead  which  had  been  made 
three  years  earlier. 

After  that  the  inventors  got 
really  busy,  creating  at  least  a dozen 
rivals  of  Whitehead's  invention. 
They  cover  a wide  range  of  me- 
chanical and  physical  principles,  but 
for  convenience  they  can  be  divided 
into  two  main  groups:  those  based 
on  the  rocket  principle  and  those  of 
a mechanical  or  electromechanical 
nature.  All  of  the  latter  came  after 
the  first  Whitehead,  many  of  the 
rocket  torpedoes  are  of  3n  earlier 
date. 

Rocket  Torpedoes 

The  first  modern  attempt  to  build 
a rocket  propelled  torpedo  was  made 
by  a Frenchman,  General  Paixhans, 


"TORPEDO  !” 


119 


Fig.  (G)  Lieut.  Barber’s  zvas  the  last  of  the  important  rocket-drive  efforts. 


in  1811.  His  torpedoes  traveled  at 
the  surface,  they  were  small  boats 
propelled  by  powder  rockets.  In 
the  bow  they  carried  a large  bomb 
with  a short  time  fuse  which  was 
ignited  by  the  rockets. 

Paixhans’  torpedoes  traveled  up 
to  four  hundred  twenty  feet  in  a 
fairly  straight  line  and  with  high 
speed;  apparently  this  distance  was 
considered  insufficient  because  the 
experiments  were  soon  discon- 
tinued. 

General  Paixhans  probably 
thought  that  his  idea  was  com- 
plete!)' new,  actually  it  was  only  an 
unintentional  revival  of  two  older 
plans  which  were  discovered  by 
military  historians  several  decades 
later.  One  of  these  two  dates  all 


the  way  back  to  Arabic  times  and 
to  the  Arab  scientist  Hassan  Alram- 
mah  Nedshm  Eddin — “Star  of 
Faith-’ — who,  around  1280,  wrote  a 
book  in  which  a “self-combusting 
and  moving  egg-’  is  mentioned. 
(Fig  A)  It  was  a flat  container 
of  incendiary  matter,  floating  at  the 
surface  and  propelled  by  two  large 
rockets.  The  second-old  plan  was 
discovered  in  the  notebook  of  the 
Italian  military  engineer  Joanes  de 
Fontana,  written  around  1420.  It 
was  a wooden  surface  torpedo,  also 
filled  with  incendiary  matter,  pro- 
pelled by  rockets  and  kept  on  a 
straight  course  by  means  of  a trail- 
ing piece  of  wood.  (Fig.  B)  It 
was  even  camouflaged  by  painting 
two  large  eyes  on  its  outer  cover 


120 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


so  that  it  might  be  mistaken  for  the 
head  of  a sea  monster. 

Since  it  is  unlikely  that  anyone 
of  these  older  plans  was  actually 
tried  out,  Paixhans  may  still  be 
given  the  honor  of  having  been  the 
first  to  experiment  along  these  lines. 

The  next  rocket  torpedo,  in 
chronological  order,  was  an  Ameri- 
can invention  about  which,  how- 
ever, nothing  definite  is  known.  Ac- 
cording to  Lieutenant  F.  M.  Barber, 
U.S.N.  of  the  U.S.  Torpedo  Sta- 
tion at  Newport,  R.  I.  .* 

In  1823  an  American,  named  Joshua 
Blair,  is  said  to  ' have  submitted  to  a 
committee  the  project  of  his  “American 
torpedoes,”  which  were  large  rockets 
bred  under  water  for  the  purpose  of 
penetrating  or  destroying  vessels.  Who 
the  committee  were  was  not  stated  in 
the  account  I have  seen,  but  they  are 
said  to  have  reported  favorably  on  the 
proj  ect. 

Two  years  later,  in  1825,  Cap- 
tain Montgery  of  the  French  Navy 
published  in  Paris  a book  with  the 
title  “Trait e de  fusees  de  guerre” 
— ‘‘Treatise  on  War  Rockets.”  It 
dealt  mainly  with  the  British  war 
rockets  of  Sir  William  Congreve 
and  their  continental  imitations,  but 
it  also  dealth  with  rockets  for  naval 
warfare.  Montgery  drew  upon  an 
experience  of  another  Frenchman, 
Dr.  Desaguliers,  which  the  latter 
had  had  in  about  1730,  just  about 
a century  earlier. 

Desaguliers,  living  as  a refugee 
in  England,  had  joined  a party  mak- 
ing a boat  trip  on  the  Thames. 
When  it  grew  dark  they  amused 

* “Lecture  on  Drifting  and  Automatic  Mov- 
able Torpedoes,  et  cetera,”  December  1874, 


themselves  by  burning  fireworks, 
colored  lights,  stars,  sky  rockets  and 
so-called  water  rockets.  The  latter, 
which  are  no  longer  customary,  con- 
sisted of  a rocket  tube  filled  with 
alternate  layers  of  ordinary  rocket 
composition  and  of  a weak  mixture 
which  only  sustained  the  flame.  The 
end  of  the  tube  contained  a small 
explosive  charge  supposed  to'  pro- 
duce a loud  noise  and  a piece  of 
lead  so  that  the  tube,  when  thrown 
into  the  river,  would  float  vertically. 
The  effect  of  these  water  rockets 
was  very  amusing.  The  first  layer 
of  powerful  rocket  composition 
forced  them  to  dive.  When  the 
weak  layer  burned  they  reappeared 
elsewhere  at  the  surface,  dived 
again,  reappeared  again  and  so 
forth  several  times  until  finally  the 
“noise  charge”  exploded. 

Desaguliers  met  with  the  misad- 
venture that  the  noise  charge  of  one 
of  these  water  rockets  exploded  un- 
der one  of  the  small  pleasure  boats 
and  promptly  blew  a big  hole  into 
the  bottom.  Astonished  by  this  in- 
credible display  of  power  Dr.  Desa- 
guliers began  to  think  about  under- 
water explosions  and  realized  that 
the  hull  of  any  ship  always  has  to 
be  the  line  of  least  resistance.  It 
is  this  principle  upon  which  all  un- 
derwater charges,  mines,  torpedoes 
and  depth  charges,  are  based. 

Montgery  knew  about  this  ad- 
venture and  about  Desaguliers’ 
conclusions.  Consequently  he  toyed 
with  the  idea  of  building  such  water 
rockets  on  a larger  scale  and  toss- 
ing them  among  enemy  vessels  by 
means  of  a mortar.  But  he  soon 
realized  that  the  moment  of  the  ex- 


"TOKPEDO  !” 


121 


Fig.  (H)  The  Patrick  torpedo  zvas  a model  submarine,  like  the  modern 
types  save  in  power  source,  s — explosive  charge.  Z — f use  mechanism. 
C — tank  for  compressed  carbon  dioxide.  Ai  and  An — chemical  heaters 
for  expanding  carbon  dioxide.  M — Motor. 


plosion  would  be  too  hard  to  cal- 
culate properly — and  even  harder 
to  accomplish — and  finally  he  dis- 
carded the  idea  altogether.  Instead 
he  advocated  rockets  to  be  fired  di- 
rectly from  launching  tubes  below 
the  water  line.  His  sketch  of  the 
proposed  mechanism  (Fig.  C)  is 
rather  crude  and  his  explanation 
somewhat  confused;  it  is  easy  to 
see  that  he  had  not  done  any  experi- 
mentation. 

Montgery's  suggestion  was  re- 
vived in  1862,  in  an  improved  form, 
by  Major  Hunt  of  the  Engineer 
Corps,  United  States  Army.  Major 
Hunt  also  wanted  to  fire  rocket- 
propelled  torpedoes  from  under- 
water launching  tubes.  His  tor- 
pedoes (Fig.  D bottom)  had  the 
shape  of  projectiles  and  consisted 
of  a head  filled  with  cannon  pow- 
der or,  possibly,  guncotton,  and 

122 


a powerful  rocket,  surrounded  by  a 
wooden  “shoe”  which  carried  in- 
clined fins  or  rather  ridges  supposed 
to  produce  rotation  of  the  projec- 
tile. For  a launching  tube  an  11- 
inch  Dahlgren  gun  was  used  at  first. 
It  was  soon  replaced  by  a specially 
constructed  12-inch  gun  (Fig.  D 
top)  with  two  sliding  valves. 

The  experiments  were  made 
from  a submerged  caisson  at  Red 
Hook,  New  York  harbor.  In  order 
to  fire  the  rocket,  sliding  valve  B 
was  opened  first  to  insert  the  pro- 
jectile. Then,  after  closing  it  again, 
sliding  valve  C was  opened  and  the 
rocket  ignited.  After  the  rocket 
had  left  the  launching  tube  valve  C 
was  closed  again. 

It  was  found  that  the  rocket  tor- 
pedoes did  not  stay  on  course  very 
reliably  but  that  they  could  be  pro- 
pelled for  a distance  of  several  hun- 
dred feet.  This  result  made  it  ap- 

A ST O UNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


£ £ 


s=x>= — - 

- <£& 

911 

□ 

1 

Fig.  (J)  Sims-Edison  Torpedo — top — and  N ordenfeldt  Torpedo — bottom 
— 5 — explosive  charge.  AAA — accumulators  (batteries).  K — wire  or 
cable  compartment.  M — motor. 


pear  that  submerged  caissons  might 
become  a valuable  adjunct  to  shore 
batteries  in  the  defense  of  harbors 
and  inlets.  Unfortunately  Major 
Hunt’s  experiments  found  a tragic 
end.  Once,  after  the  rocket  had 
been  ignited,  it  was  found  that  the 
outer  valve  had  not  been  raised. 
Major  Hunt  feared  that  the  gun 
might  burst  and  descended  into  the 
caisson.  The  gun  did  not  burst,  but 
the  major  as  well  as  an  assistant 
who  tried  to  come  to  his  rescue 
were  smothered  to  death  in  the  cais- 
son by  the  gases  escaping  around 
the  rear  valve  which  had  probably 
buckled  under  the  pressure. 

But  while  this  accident  ended 
American  experimentation  with 
such  a device  it  did  not  eliminate 
the  idea  completely. 

Mr.  Quick,  an  English  engineer  in  the 
Royal  Navy,  somewhat  later,  proposed  an 


invention  on  the  same  principle  as  Major 
Hunt’s,  and  an  experiment  was  recom- 
mended by  the  Royal  Engineer  Commit- 
tee, which  took  place  at  Shoeburyness  in 
1872. 

The  torpedo  was  a cylinder,  something 
over  five  feet  long,  with  a sharp-pointed 
head,  and  immediately  behind  it  was  a 
space  intended  to  be  filled  with  guncot- 
ton. The  after  part  of  the  body  con- 
sisted of  four  rockets,  w'hich  were  in 
communication  with  the  igniting  charge, 
and  whose  gas  escaped  on  ignition 
through  spiral  vents  designed  to  give 
rotation  to  the  rocket  and  keep  its  axis 
steady  while  projecting  it  through  the 
water. 

The  torpedo  was  fired  from  a 10-inch 
gun,  which  was  laid  on  the  beach  at 
about  five  degrees  elevation,  at  a spot 
where  the  incoming  tide  would  cover  it 
to  a depth  of  about  three  feet.  The  muz- 
zle was  closed  by  a disk  of  glass  fixed  in 
a wood  washer  tightly  sealed  round  the 
edge,  while  an  electric  wire  led  through 
the  vent  of  the  gun  to  a small  igniting 
charge  in  the  center  of  the  base  of  the 
torpedo.  When  the  tide  rose  and  cov- 
ered the  gun  the  experiment  took  place. 


"TORPEDO  !*’ 


123 


Oti  firing,  the  torpedo  burst  open  close 
to  the  muzzle  of  the  gun,  two  rockets  ris- 
ing high  into  the  air,  one  of  which  de- 
scended again  almost  immediately.  . . . 
No  further  experiments  have  been  made 
that  I am  aware  of  on  Mr.  Quick's 
plan.  . . . 

(Barber) 

The  explanation  of  this  failure  is 
simple,  the  glass  disk  was  much 
stronger  than  suspected  and  failed 
to  break,  supported  by  the  pressure 
of  the  water  on  the  outside,  and  the 
torpedo  broke  up  inside  the  barrel. 

William  Hale,  the  inventor  of  the 
stickless  rocket  for  land  warfare 
which  was  supposed  to  replace  and 
actually  did  replace  the  Congreve 
rocket  with  its  long  and  heavy  guid- 
ing stick,  is  known  to  have  been  op- 
posed to  the  idea  of  a rocket  pro- 
pelled torpedo.  Hale  pointed  out 
that  the  main  value  of  a torpedo 
consists  in  striking  below  the  water 
line  and  in  producing  an  underwater 
explosion.  But  this  condition,  he 
said,  eanot  be  fulfilled  in  the  case  of 
a rocket-driven  torpedo  since  the 
rocket,  due  to  the  steady  combus- 
tion of  the  propelling  charge,  is 
losing  weight  steadily. 

At  about  the  same  time  when  the 
British  Navy  made  the  single  ill- 
fated  experiment  with  Mr.  Quick’s 
rocket  torpedo,  an  American  en- 
gineer. who  is  only  identified  as 
"Mr.  Phillips  of  Indiana,”  sub- 
mitted a novel  design  for  a rocket 
torpedo  which  wTas  supposed  to  cir- 
cumvent the  difficulty  pointed  out 
by  Hale.  Phillips’  rocket  torpedo 
was  really  a torepdo-tdwing  rocket. 
(Fig.  E)  The  exceptionally  large 
rocket,  six-seven  feet  long  and 

124 


one  foot  in  diameter,  was  to  float 
at  the  surface,  towing  the  com- 
paratively small  and  generally  cigar- 
shaped torpedo  under  water.  “When 
the  rocket  strikes  the  enemy  it  ex- 
plodes at  the  water’s  edge — carry- 
ing a separate  bursting  charge  of  its 
own — while  the  torpedo  dives  and 
is  carried  by  its  momentum  under 
the  ship  where  it  explodes  on  strik- 
ing the  bottom.”  It  seems  that  Mr. 
Phillips’  rocket  torpedo  was  never 
built  and  tested.'  This  is  more  than 
a little  deplorable,  it  would  have 
been  interesting  to  see  whether  the 
double  explosion  would  have  taken 
place  in  the  manner  predicted  by 
the  inventor.  It  would  also  have 
been  interesting  to  see  whether  such 
a large  rocket  could  have  skimmed 
across  choppy  waves  without  being 
deflected. 

In  1873  the  British  Navy  also 
experimented  with  a rocket  torpedo 
invented  by  Charles  Meade  Ramus. 
The  first  experiments  were  not  very 
successful  but  the  inventor  did  not 
give  up  and  improved  his  device 
greatly  so  that  he  could  demonstrate 
it  with  much  better  success  in  1879. 
According  to  the  now  defunct  Ger- 
man military  magazine  Archiv  fiir 
die  Offiziere  der  Ingemeur  mid 
Genietruppe  (vol.  85)  the  torpedo 
traveled  fifteen  feet  below  the  sur- 
face with  a speed  of  about  fifty  feet 
per  second.  Its  range  was  about 
one  thousand  yards.  The  bursting 
charge  consisted  of  guncotton,  the 
torpedo  also  carried  a device  for 
cutting  anti-torpedo  nets.  Ramus' 
offer  was  rejected  again,  however, 
because  a range  of  one  thousand 
yards  was  deemed  insufficient. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Returning  to  America  we  find 
two  rocket  torpedoes  in  1874.  One 
(Fig.  F)  was  submitted  in  Janu- 
ary of  that  year  to  the  Bureau  of 
Ordnance  by  one  Mr.  Weir,  a civil 
engineer  then  living  in  New  York 
City.  Beginning  at  the  right-hand 
end  of  the  diagram  we  find  the  ex- 
haust nozzle  labeled  D.  It  was 
equipped  with  three  vanes  to  pro- 
vide rotation  around  the  longi- 
tudinal axis.  C is  the  propelling 
charge  of  the  rocket,  EE  denotes 
empty  space  supposed  to  fill  up  with 
sea  water  at  the  same  rate  at  which 
the  rocket  composition  is  consumed. 
BB  is  a w'ooden  sabot  for  fairing, 
A is  the  bursting  charge  and  dd  a 
tube  filled  with  fulminate  of  mer- 
cury. When  the  rocket  torpedo 
strikes  the  tube  dd  is  jammed  into 
the  rocket  composition.  Even  if 
the  fulminate  should  fail  to  explode 
the  fire  from  the  rocket  composi- 
tion would  gain  access  to  the  ex- 
plosive charge  and  set  it  off. 

This  torpedo  did  not  exist  on 
paper  only,  several  specimens  had 
been  built  by  the  inventor  who 
stated  that  the  over-all  length  would 
be  seven  feet  seven  inches,  the 
diameter  one  foot.  The  rocket  com- 
position was  to  weigh  seventy - 
eight  pounds,  the  explosive  charge 
in  the  head  seventy-four  pounds, 
the  over-all  weight  was  to  be  about 
two  hundred  forty-five  pounds. 
During  privately  undertaken  tests 
such  torpedoes  had  been  fired  under 
water,  four  feet  below  the  surface 
and  aimed  at  a line  painted  four 
feet  below  the  surface  on  a target 
sixty-three  feet  distant.  The  tor- 
pedoes struck  the  target  after  four 


and  a half  seconds,  five  to  seven 
inches  below  the  four-foot  line  at 
which  they  had  been  aimed.  | 

Almost  simultaneously  with  the' 
Weir  torpedo  the  Bureau  of  Ord-j 
nance  received  another  rocket  tor- 
pedo project,  drawn  up  by  the 
Lieutenant  Barber  mentioned 
earlier.  It  is  shown  in  (Fig.  G) 
Its  length  was  to  be  seven  feet,  the 
diameter  twelve  inches,  the  dis- 
placement weight  two  hundred 
eightv-seven  pounds.  The  rocket 
charge  was  to  weigh  fifty-one 
pounds,  the  bursting  charge  forty- 
eight  pounds. 

The  proposed  construction  of 
this  torpedo  was  especially  interest- 
ing and  ingenious.  In  the  center 
there  was  to  be  the  tube  holding  the 
rocket  composition.  Around  it  a 
light  and  preferably  square  metal 
tube  was  to  be  wound  spirally,  its 
capacity  being  such  that  it  could 
hold  fifty-two  pounds  of  water 
when  completely  filled.  The  water 
which,  of  course,  was  to  replace  the 
weight  of  the  rocket  composition 
was  to  enter  in  front.  The  torpedo 
was  to  rotate  around  its  longitudinal 
axis,  rotation  being  brought  about 
by  the  shape  of  the  outer  wooden 
cover.  This  rotation  would  cause 
centrifugal  force  and  Lieutenant 
Barber  counted  on  that  to  distribute 
the  water  properly. 

While  the  rotary  motion  would 
keep  the  water  at  the  outer  wall  of 
the  spiral  tube,  the  spiral  shape,  on 
the  other  hand,  would  tend  to  make 
it  flow  toward  the  rear.  That  way 
the  water  would  not  only  replace 
the  weight  of  the  consumed  rocket 
composition,  but  would  also  locate 


“TORPEDO !” 


125 


itself  approximately  where  the  com- 
position had  been  consumed  and  at 
the  proper  rate.  This,  at  least,  was 
the  theory.  The  ignition  of  the  ex- 
plosive charge  was  to  be  brought 
about  by  a percussion  fuze.  But 
the  last  portion  of  the  rocket  charge 
was  to  ignite  the  explosive  charge 
at  any  event  so  that  the  torpedoes 
would  blow  up  and  not  endanger 
friendly  vessels. 

It  may  be  remarked  here  that  the 
German  Navy  resumed  experiments 
with  powder  rockets  as  torpedoes  at 
the  comparatively  late  date  of  1906 
and  continued  them  for  several 
years,  until  1912  or  1913.  The 
diameter  of  the  rockets  is  said  to 
have  been  eighty  millimeters,  noth- 
ing about  their  arrangement  or  the 
total  size  of  the  torpedo  was  ever 
released.  But  it  was  stated  that  the 
speed  was  much  higher  than  that  of 


the  standard  German  Schwartzkopff 
torpedo — the  German  modification 
of  the  Whitehead,  a punning  fate 
saw  to  it  that  the  name  of  that  firm, 
when  translated,  means  “blackhead" 
— of  that  year  and  that  their  cost 
exceeded  ten  percent  of  the  cost 
of  a Schwartzkopff  only  slightly. 
The  experiments  were  broken  off 
because  the  German  designers  did 
not  succeed  in  making  their  rocket 
torpedoes  less  erratic  than  they  were. 

Mechanical  and  Electrical 
Rivals  of  the  Whitehead 

Some  of  these  rocket  torpedoes 
were  older  than  the  Whitehead,  be- 
ing attempts  to  provide  a naval  mine 
with  motive  power  by  means  of  the 
rocket  principle,  one  of  the  three 
prime  movers  known  at  that  time. 
(The  others  were  steam  engine  and 
clockwork. ) 


Fig.  (K)  Brennan  torpedo.  Pr  and  Pn  propellers,  v— vanes.  AT  and 

Kn — wire  drums,  a — guide  for  the  wires. 


128 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


After  Whitehead  had  shown  that 
it  could  be  done,  other  types  of 
rivals  sprang  up.  One  of  the 
earliest  of  them  was  the  Ericsson 
Dirigible  Torpedo,  constructed  in 
1873.  It  was  made  of  boiler  plate 
and  weighed  about  two  thousand 
pounds.  Its  engine  operated  on 
compressed  air.  The  torpedo  was 
launched  from  above  the  water  line 
and  submerged  by  means  of  two  in- 
clined planes.  A simple  mechanism 
changed  the  angle  of  these  planes 
or  depth  rudders  when  the  pre- 
determined depth  had  been  attained. 
The  torpedo  could  be  steered  from 
the  shore,  the  compressed  air  re- 
quired for  propelling  and  steering 
the  torpedo  was  delivered  through 
a trailing  hose  which  was  only  eight 
hundred  feet  long,  limiting  the 
range  to  that  distance.  The  air  was 
compressed  by  means  of  a hand- 
operated  air  compressor  which  re- 


quired a dozen  men  to  work  it.  But 
with  twelve  men  sweating  ashore 
to  move  the  torpedo,  it  still  made 
less  speed  than  any  of  these  men 
could  have  produced  in  a brisk 
walk,  without  running  or  sweating. 
Its  maximum  sped  was  three  knots, 
almost  incredibly  slow. 

The  Ericsson  was  the  only  type 
where  it  was  ever,  tried  to  furnish 
the  torpedo  with  “fuel,”  other  than 
electricity,  while  in  motion.  It  did 
work,  but  that  is  all  that  can  be  said 
about  it.  Even  if  it  had  performed 
better  it  could  hardly  have  been  used 
from  board  of  a vessel  of  any  kind, 
its  only  value  would  have  been  har- 
bor defense. 

Many  of  the  early  types  were 
conceived  and  designed  with  this 
purpose  in  mind.  And  because  of 
that  many  designers  did  something 
which  to  us  looks  like  the  height  of 
foolishness:  they  provided  devices 


Fig.  (L)  Howell  Torpedo,  s — flywheel.  KK  and  kk — gears.  IV IV 

propeller  shafts. 


“TORPEDO  !" 


127 


to  see  the  torpedo  at  all  times  dur- 
ing its  journey,  they  even  provided 
electric  lights  to  show  its  position 
at  night! 

The  torpedoes  of  this  kind  may 
be  called  float  torpedoes,  the  names 
are  Nordenfeldt,  Sims-Edison  and 
Patrick.  While  differing  otherwise, 
all  three  were  non-buoyant,  being 
heavier  than  water  and  suspended 
from  surface  floats  carrying  small 
flags  or  brightly  colored  balls  on 
upright  struts;  for  night  duty  the 
balls  were  replaced  by  electric 
s lamps.  Even  a floatless  “fish” 
type,  Brennan,  was  equipped  with 
an  upright  strut  carrying  a red 
ball  by  day  and  a 16-Watt  light 
bulb  by  night. 

The  Patrick  torpedo  (Fig.  H) 
was  propelled  by  liquid  carbon 
dioxide  under  high  pressure  (C) 
warrrted  by  two  special  heaters  (Ai 
and  An)  utilizing  chemical  heat. 
The  explosive  charge  was  carried 
in  the  extreme  tip  (s),  the  fuze 
mechanism  (Z)  responded  to  con- 
tact as  well  as  to  electric  ignition 
from  the  shore,  transmitted  through 
wires  trailing  behind.  These  wires 
also  served  to  steer  the  torpedo.  The 
Patrick  torpedo  had  a competitor 
named  Victoria,  it  lacked  a surface 
float  and  operated  on  compressed 
air  used  straight,  without  any  heat- 
ing or  other  devices.  One  may  also 
say  that  the  Victoria  was  a sim- 
plified Whitehead  with  remote  con- 
trol by  means  of  trailing  wires 
■which,  of  course,  reduced  its  effec- 
tiveness instead  of  improving  it. 

The  Sims-Edison  torpedo  (Fig. 
T top)  and  the  Nordenfeldt  tor- 
pedo (Fig.  J bottom)  were  both 

123 


electrical,  differing  mainly  as  re- 
gards to  the  source  of  the  current. 
In  the  Nordenfeldt  the  motor  M 
received  its  current  from  storage 
batteries  (AAA).  The  trailing 
wires,  reeled  out  of  their  compart- 
ment K served  for  steering  only. 
As  in  the  case  of  the  Ericsson  tor- 
pedo it  can  be  said  that  it  worked. 

Edison  was  of  the  opinion  that 
the  trailing  wires,  since  they  ex- 
isted, might  as  well  be  used  for 
extra  duty  and  made  them  carry  the 
current  in  addition  to  steering  im- 
pulses. Having  thus  gained  extra 
space  in  the  torpedo — by  elimina- 
tion of  the  storage  batteries — Edi- 
son could  provide  much  longer  trail- 
ing cables,  increasing  the  range  of 
his  torpedo.  Naturally  it  was  also 
much  faster  than  the  Nordenfeldt, 
since  the  motor  could  work  on  out- 
side current. 

But  there  was  a drawback  to  that, 
too.  The  current  which  Edison  fed 
to  the  motor  by  means  of  a single 
insulated  cable  and  through  the 
ground  and  water  complicated  oper- 
ations. It  was  so  powerful  that  the 
service  crews  had  to  wear  rubber 
boots  and  rubber  gloves  to  prevent 
accidents,  and  when  the  torpedo 
was  tested  military  police  had  to 
shush  visitors  and  onlookers  away 
each  time,  not  so  much  for  reasons 
of  secrecy  but  to  keep  the  accident 
rate  down. 

The  float  of  the  Edison  was  con- 
structed of  slieet  copper  and  was 
taken  to  shape  the  suspension  and 
the  float  in  such  a manner  that  the 
torpedo  could  negotiate  obstacles 
like  anti-torpedo  booms  by  diving 
under  them.  The  upright  struts  of 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


the  balls  were  hinged  for  this  rea- 
son so  that  they  would  fold  back 
in  such  a case.  Folding  back  they 
compressed  the  leaf  spring  that  held 
them  upright  and  which  Tightened 
them  again. 

One  should  think  that  everybody 
had  enough  of  trailing  wires  and 
cables  by  then,  but  in  the  eighties 
the  British  Government  adopted 
another  wire-trailing  type  for 
coastal  defense. 

Its  inventor  was  a watchmaker  by 
the  name  of  Brennan  living  in  Mel- 
bourne, Australia.  Having  found 
a to  him  satisfactory  and  at  any 
event  novel  and  ingenious  solution 
of  the  propulsion  problem,  Bren- 
nan approached  the  British  Ad- 
miralty which,  in  1880,  directed  a 
higher  naval  dfficer  of  the  Aus- 
tralian station  to  report  on  the  mer- 
its of  “Mr.  Brennan’s  invention.” 
Rear  admiral  J.  C.  Wilson — then 
only  Commodore  Wilson — must 
have  reported  very  favorably,  be- 
cause Brennan  was  paid  very  con- 
siderable amounts  of  money  for  his 
invention  and  the  British  Admiralty 
developed  it  energetically. 

In  general  appearance  and  in 
some  particulars  the  Brennan  tor- 
pedo resembled  the  Whitehead  very 
much.  It  had  the  same  shape,  the 
same  arrangement  of  two  propellers 
rotating  in  opposite  directions  and 
it  had  a depth  setting  gear  which 
differed  from  that  of  the  contem- 
porary Whiteheads  only  in  minor 
detail.  The  charge  was  carried  in 
the  nose  and  consisted  of  guncot- 
ton. It  weighed,  in  the  final  model, 
some  two  hundred  pounds. 

The  novel  invention  was  the  way 


PARTS 

OF  DOC  SAVAGE’S 
BODY  RECOVERED  ! 

Without  warning  trouble  lands  on  Doc 
Savage  in  London — he  is  grabbed  and 
whisked  aboard  a mystery  plane. 

Then  the  plane  crashes,  and  Doc  is 
among  the  dead.  The  identification  is 
official. 

But  what  did  this  have  to  do  with  the 
desperate  search  for  a Czech  in  a con- 
centration camp?  And  why  was  it  so 
important  to  rescue  the  Czech?  Don't 
miss  THE  SHAPE  OF  TERROR  in  the 
August 

DOC  SAVAGE 

AT  ALL  NEWSSTANDS 


“TORPEDO  I” 


129 


Fig.  (M)  Early  Howell  Torpedo.  No.  1 and  2.  original  idea  (not  built). 
No.  4 and  5.  diagram  of  the  first  model  actually  built.  No.  3.  original 
concept  of  launching  mechanism.  No.  6.  first  launching  mechanism 

actually  built- 


in  which  the  torpedo  was  supplied 
with  power.  The  source  was  a 100 
HP  steam  engine  ashore.  The  tor- 
pedo carried  two  drums  (Fig.  K) 
upon  which  nine  thousand  feet  of 
strong  piano  wire  were  wound 
tightly.  These  two  drums  were  con- 
nected with  the  drive  shafts  of  the 
propellers.  The  piano  wires,  emerg- 
ing from  the  torpedo,  were  threaded 
through  a guide  (a)  and  attached  to 
two  cable  drums  ashore,  the  latter 
being  connected  with  the  steam  en- 
gine. 

When  the  steam  engine  turned 
these  drums  the  wires  were  un- 
wound from  the  drums  inside  the 
torpedo,  making  the  propellers 
turn  rapidly.  If  the  torpedo  was 
immersed  in  water,  it  naturally 
moved  because  its  propellers  turned. 

130 


This  led  to  the  mildly  curious  re- 
sult that  the  torpedo  ran  away  the 
faster  the  harder  the  steam  engine 
pulled  the  wires. 

The  Brennan  had  a considerable 
range  and  could  develop  a high 
speed — to  a certain  extent  at  the 
expense  of  range — furthermore  it 
could  be  steered  from  the  shore 
simply  by  turning  the  two  cable 
drums  at  different  speeds.  The 
maximum  deviation  possible  was 
forty  degrees  of  arc  to  either  side. 

While  the  Brennan  was  the  most 
ingenious  of  all  the  early  rivals  of 
the  Whitehead,  the  American 
Howell  torpedo  was  the  most  seri- 
ous among  these  rivals  and  hardly 
less  ingenious,  although  in  a differ- 
ent manner,  than  the  Brennan. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Fig.  L shows  a diagram  of  the  final 
shape  of  the  Howell,  while  Fig.  M 
illustrates  the  development  of  the 
idea. 

The  inventor,  Commander  J.  A. 
Howell,  U.  S.  N.,  submitted  the 
original  idea  to  the  Bureau  of  Ord- 
nance on  June  18,  1870.  It  was 
patented  on  November  21,  1871. 
Its  essential  feature  was  that  it 
lacked  a prime  mover  in  the  usual 
sense  of  the  word.  Instead  it  was 
propelled  by  stored  mechanical  en- 
ergy,  by  a momentum  engine. 

Commander  Howell’s  original 
conception  of  his  torpedo  is  shown 
in  Fig.  M,  No.  1 and  2.  It  was  to 
consist  essentially  of  nothing  but  an 
explosive  charge,  packed  tightly  into 
a cylindrical  container.  The  con- 
tainer was  rigidly  connected  with 
two  shafts,  each  carrying  a small 
propeller.  The  rear  shaft,  project- 
ing for  a few  inches  beyond  its  pro- 
peller, ended  in  the  center  of  a cog- 
wheel. The  whole  was  to  be  incased 
in  a thin  outer  shell,  cylindrical  in 
shape  with  conical  ends  to  reduce 
water  resistance.  The  cylindrical 
part  of  that  outer  shell  was  to  be 
about  four  feet  long,  the  diameter 
one  foot.  The  torpedo  was  then  to 
be  placed  into  an  inclined  launching 
tube  (Fig.  M,  No.  3)  which  had 
an  attachment  gripping  the  rear  cog- 
wheel. By  means  of  this  attach- 
ment the  cogwheel  and  with  it  both 
propellers  and  the  heavy  cylinder 
with  the  explosive  charge  were  to 
be  rotated  rapidly  until  a consider- 
able amount  of  energy  had  been 
stored.  Then  the  torpedo  was  to  be 
released. 

This  form,  however,  was  not  ac- 


tually built.  Nos.  4,  5,  and  6 on 
Fig.  M show  the  actual  construc- 
tion of  the  first  model  and  the 
method  of  launching  it. 

In  this  model  the  explosive 
charge  was  packed  in  the  nose  of 
the  torpedo.  The  center  was  occu- 
pied by  an  iron  flywheel  (X)  which 
had  been-  made  by  drilling  a hole 
through  a solid  iron  sphere  weigh- 
ing a hundred  pounds.  A simple 
gear  transmitted  the  motion  of  the 
flywheel  to  two  propellers  which 
were  now  both  placed  at  the  rear 
end,  one  rotating  clockwise  and  the 
other  counter-clockwise.  The  pro- 
pellers, as  can  be  seen  in  the  dia- 
gram, were  placed  side  by  side  like 
ship’s  propellers.  The  whole  tor- 
pedo was  slightly  buoyant  since  it 
was  to  be  retrieved  after  each  ex- 
periment. 

During  tests  2000  r.p.m.  were 
imparted  to  the  flywheel,  the  tor- 
pedo was  released  immediately 
when  this  number  of  revolutions 
was  reached.  It  moved  in  a straight 
line  as  long  as  it  remained  under 
water  which  was  for  any  distance 
between  thirty  and  one  hundred 
feet.  Then  it  came  to  the  surface 
and  continued  for  another  one  hun- 
dred or  two  hundred  feet  at  the 
surface,  but  no  longer  in  a straight 
line.  It  veered  either  to  the  right 
or  to  the  left,  without  showing  any 
special  preference  for  either  direc- 
tion. The  tests  were  first  made 
from  the  shore  at  Newport,  Rhode 
Island,  and  then  repeated  from 
board  of  the  U.  S.  S.  Nina,  with 
the  ship  first  lying  at  anchor  and 
then  making  five  knots  of  speed. 


“TORPEDO  !” 


181 


The  performance  was  the  same  in 
either  case. 

Though  these  tests  were  mildly 
disappointing  the  design  was  con- 
sidered as  showing  promise  and 
larger  models  were  constructed. 
The  type  built  in  1890  had  an  over- 
all length  of  one  hundred  twenty- 
eight  inches,  a diameter  of  four- 
teen point  two  inches  and  a total 
weight  of  four  hundred  seventy-five 
pounds.  The  high-explosive  charge 
(guncotton)  weighed  one  hundred 
pounds  and  'the  drop-forged  steei 
flywheel  one  hundred  thirty-one 
point  four  pounds.  The  propellers 
were  geared  to  the  flywheel  in  such 
a manner  that  each  made  eight  hun- 
dred revolutions  to  one  thousand 
revolutions  of  the  flywheel.  The 
flywheel  was  rotated  at  the  rate  of 
10,000  r.p.m.  by  means  of  an  en- 
gine which  formed  a permanent 
attachment  of  the  launching  tube. 
The  torpedo  consisted  of  four  dis- 
tinct sections : the  nose  with  firing 
pin  and  firing  mechanism,  the  head 
with  the  high-explosive  charge,  the 
main  section  with  the  flywheel  and 
the  stern  section  with  the  diving 
mechanism. 

The  main  advantage  of  the  im- 
proved Howell  was  the  simplicity 
of  construction  and  its  pronounced 
tendency  to  maintain  its  direction 
which  was  the  result  of  the  gyro- 


scopic action  of  the  heavy  flywheel. 
Because  of  its  inherent  simplicity 
it  was  also  much  less  expensive 
than  a Whitehead, 

But  some  of  the  advantage  of 
simplification  had  been  accomplished 
only  by  removing  it  from  the  tor- 
pedo and  putting  it  on  the  launch- 
ing tube.  While  it  is  conceivable 
that  a Howell  might  be  wound  up 
by  an  airplane  engine  in  a torpedo 
plane  and  used  from  the  air,  it  could 
not  be  done  with  the  same  lack  of 
mechanical  complications  as  is  the 
case  with  the  Whitehead.  And  al- 
though the  flywheel  could  store  an 
energy  of  about  one  hundred  fifty 
thousand  meter/kilograms,  a most 
remarkable  figure,  the  range  of  the 
Howell  remained  comparatively 
short,  mostly  because  it  had  the 
tendency  of  losing  speed  rather 
quickly. 

The  main  disadvantage,  however, 
was  that  the  Howell  could  not  be 
kept  ready  for  immediate  action 
for  an  indefinite  length  of  time. 
Neither  would  it  have  been  feasible 
to  keep  the  flywheel  still  and  then 
crank  it  up  very  fast;  feeding  a 
Whitehead  into  a launching  tube 
would  be  faster  under  any  circum- 
stances. And  that  is  the  reason 
why  the  more  complicated  and  more 
expensive  Whitehead  finally  won 
out,  even  over  the  simple  and  inex- 
pensive Howell.  - 


THE  END. 


132 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Huddling  Pla  ce 


by  CLIFFORD  D.  SIMAK 

A sequel  to  “City,”  this  story  suggests  a new  point  of  human 
psychology — one  that  may,  in  truth,  become  important  in 
such  a culture  as  Simak  proposes.  A man  can’t  leave  his  home! 


Illustrated  by  Williams 


The  drizzle  sifted  from  the 
leaden  skies,  like  smoke  drifting 
through  the  bare-branched  trees. 
It  softened  the  hedges  and  hazed 
the  outlines  of  the  buildings  and 
blotted  out  the  distance.  It  glinted 
on  the  metallic  skins  of  the  silent 
robots  and  silvered  the  shoulders 
of  the  three  humans  listening  to 
the  intonations  of  the  black-garbed 

HUDDLING  PLACE 


man,  who  read  from  the  book 
cupped  between  his  hands. 

“For  I am  the  Resurrection  and 
the  Life — ’’ 

The  moss-mellowed  graven  figure 
that  reared  above  the  door  of  the 
crypt  seemed  straining  upward, 
every  crystal  of  its  yearning  body 
reaching  toward  something  that  no 
one  else  could  see.  Straining,  as  it 

133 


had  strained  since  that  day  of  long 
ago  when  men  had  chipped  it  from 
the  granite  to  adorn  the  family 
tomb  with  a symbolism  that  had 
pleased  the  first  John  J.  Webster 
in  the  last  years  he  held  of  life. 

“And  whosoever  liveth  and  he - 
lieveth  in  Me — ” 

Jerome  A.  Webster  felt  his  son’s 
fingers  tighten  on  his  arm,  heard 
the  muffled  sobbing  of  his  mother, 
saw  the  lines  of  robots  standing 
rigid,  heads  bowed  in  respect  to  the 
master  they  had  served.  The 
master  who  now  was  going  home — 
to  the  final  home  of  all. 

Numbly,  Jerome  A.  Webster 
wondered  if  they  understood — if 
they  understood  life  and  death — if 
they  understood  what  it  meant  that 
Nelson  F.  Webster  lay  there  in  the 
casket,  that  a man  with  a book  in- 
toned words  above  him. 

Nelson  F.  Webster,  fourth  of  the 
line  of  Websters  who  had  lived  on 
these  acres,  had  lived  and  died  here, 
scarcely  leaving,  and  now  was  going 
to  his  final  rest  in  that  place  the 
first  of  them  had  prepared  for  the 
rest  of  them — for  that  long  line  of 
shadowy  descendants  who  would 
live  here  and  cherish  the  things  and 
the  ways  and  the  life  that  the  first 
John  J.  Webster  had  established. 

Jerome  A.  Webster  felt  his  jaw 
muscles  tighten,  felt  a little  tremor 
run  across  his  body.  For  a mo- 
ment his  eyes  burned  and  the  casket 
blurred  in  his  sight  and  the  words 
the  man  in  black  was  saying  were 
one  with  the  wind  that  whispered 
in  the  pines  standing  sentinel  for 
the  dead.  Within  his  brain  remem- 
brance marched — remembrance  of 

184 


a gray-haired  man  stalking  the  hills 
and  fields,  sniffing  the  breeze  of  an 
early  morning,  standing,  legs 
braced,  before  the  flaring  fireplace 
with  a glass  of  brandy  in  his  hand. 

Pride — the  pride  of  land  and  life, 
and  the  humility  and  greatness  that 
quiet  living  breeds  within  a man. 
Contentment  of  casual  leisure  and 
surety  of  purpose.  Independence 
of  assured  security,  comfort  of 
familiar  surroundings,  freedom  of 
broad  acres. 

Thomas  Webster  was  joggling 
his  elbow.  ‘’Father,”  he  was  whis- 
pering. ‘‘Father.” 

The  service  was  over.  The 
black-garbed  man  had  closed  his 
book.  Six  robots  stepped  forward, 
lifted  the  casket. 

Slowly  the  three  followed  the 
casket  into  the  crypt,  stood  silently 
as  the  robots  slid  it  into  its  re- 
ceptacle, closed  the  tiny  door  and 
affixed  the  plate  that  read: 

NELSON  F.  WEBSTER 

2034-2117 

That  was  all.  Just  the  name  and 
dates.  And  that,  Jerome  A.  Web- 
ster found  himself  thinking,  was 
enough.  There  was  nothing  else 
that  needed  to  be  there.  That  was 
all  those  others  had.  The  ones  that 
called  the  family  roll — starting  with 
William  Stevens,  1920-1999.  Gramp 
Stevens,  they  had  called  him,  Web- 
ster remembered.  Father  of  the 
wife  of  that  first  John  J.  Webster, 
who  was  here  himself — 1951-2020. 
And  after  him  his  son,  Charles  F. 
Webster,  1980-2060.  And  his  son, 
John  J.  II,  2004-2086.  Webster 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-UICTION 


could  remember  John  J.  II — a 
grandfather  who  had  slept  beside 
the  fire  with  his  pipe  hanging  from 
his  mouth,  eternally  threatening  to 
set  his  whiskers  aflame. 

Webster's  eyes  strayed  to  another 
plate.  Mary  Webster,  the  mother 
of  the  boy  here  at  his  side.  And 
yet  not  a boy.  He  kept  forgetting 
that  Thomas  was  twenty  now,  in 
a week  or  so  would  be  leaving  for 
Mars,  even  as  in  his  younger  days 
he,  too,  had  gone  to  Mars. 

All  here  together,  he  told  him- 
self. The  Websters  and  their  wives 
and  children.  Here  in  death  to- 
gether as  they  had  lived  together, 
sleeping  in  the  pride  and  security 
of  bronze  and  marble  with  the  pines 
outside  and  the  symbolic  figure 
above  the  age-greened  door. 

The  robots  were  waiting,  standing 
silently,  their  task  fulfilled. 

His  mother  looked  at  him. 

“You’re  head  of  the  family  now, 
my  son,”  she  told  him. 

He  reached  out  and  hugged  her 
close  against  his  side.  Head  of  the 
family — what  was  left  of  it.  Just 
the  three  of  them  now.  His  mother 
and  his  son.  And  his  son  would  be 
leaving  soon,  going  out  to  Mars. 
But  he  would  come  back.  Come 
back  with  a wife,  perhaps,  and  the 
family  would  go  on.  The  family 
wouldn’t  stay  at  three.  Most  of 
the  big  house  wouldn’t  stay  closed 
off,  as  it  now  was  closed  off.  There 
had  been  a time  when  it  had  rung 
with  the  life  of  a dozen  units  of 
the  family,  living  in  their  separate 
apartments  under  one  big  roof. 
That  time,  he  knew  would  come 
again. 


The  three  of  them  turned  and 
left  the  crypt,  took  the  path  back  to 
the  house,  looming  like  a huge  gray 
shadow  in  the  mist. 

A fire  blazed  in  the  hearth  and 
the  book  lay  upon  his  desk.  Jerome 
A.  Webster  reached  out  and  picked 
it  up,  read  the  title  once  again: 

“Martian  Physiology,  With  Es- 
pecial Reference  to  the  Brain"  by 
Jerome  A.  Webster,  M.D. 

Thick  and  authoritative — the 
work  of  a lifetime.  Standing  al- 
most alone  in  its  field.  Based  upon 
the  data  gathered  during  those  five 
plague  years  on  Mars — years  when 
he  had  labored  almost  day  and  night 
with  his  fellow  colleagues  of  the 
World  Committee’s  medical  com- 
mission, dispatched  on  an  errand  of 
mercy  to  the  neighboring  planet. 

A tap  sounded  on  the  door. 

“Come  in,”  he  called. 

The  door  opened  and  a robot 
glided  in. 

“Your  whiskey,  sir.” 

“Thank  you,  Jenkins,”  Webster 
said. 

“The  minister,  sir,”  said  Jenkins, 
“has  left.” 

“Oh,  yes.  I presume  that  you 
took  care  of  him.” 

“I  did,  sir.  Gave  him  the  usual 
fee  and  offered  him  a drink,  tie 
refused  the  drink.” 

“That  was  a social  error,”  Web- 
ster told  him.  “Ministers  don’t 
drink.” 

“I’m  sorry,  sir.  I didn’t  know. 
He  asked  me  to  ask  you  to  come  to 
church  sometime.” 

“Eh?” 

“I  told  him,  sir,  that  you  never 


HUDDLING  PLACE 


135 


went  anywhere.” 

“That  was  quite  right,  Jenkins,” 
said  Webster.  “None  of  us  ever 
go  anywhere.” 

Jenkins  headed  for  the  door, 
stopped  before  he  got  there,  turned 
around.  “If  I may  say  so,  sir,  that 
was  a touching  service  at  the  crypt. 
Your  father  was  a fine  human,  the 
finest  ever  was.  The  robots  were 
saying  the  service  was  very  fitting. 
Dignified  like,  sir.  He  would  have 
liked  it  had  he  known.” 

“My  father,”  said  Webster, 
“would  be  even  more  pleased  to 
hear  you  say  that,  Jenkins.” 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Jenkins, 
and  went  out. 

Webster  sat  with  the  whiskey 
and  the  book  and  fire — felt  the 
comfort  of  the  well-known  room 
close  in  about  him,  felt  the  refuge 
that  was  in  it. 

This  was  home.  It  had  been  home 
for  the  Websters  since  that  day 
when  the  first  John  J.  had  come 
here  and  built  the  first  unit  of  the 
sprawling  house.  John  J.  had 
chosen  it  because  it  had  a trout 
stream,  or  so  he  always  said.  But 
it  was  something  more  than  that. 
It  must  have  been,  Webster  told 
himself,  something  more  than  that. 

Or  perhaps,  at  first,  it  had  only 
been  the  trout  stream.  The  trout 
stream  and  the  trees  and  meadows, 
the  rocky  ridge  where  the  mist 
drifted  in  each  morning  from  the 
river.  Maybe  the  rest  of  it  had 
grown,  grown  gradually  through 
the  years,  through  years  of  family 
association  until  the  very  soil  was 
soaked  with  something  that  ap- 
proached but  wasn’t  quite,  tradi- 

138 


tion.  Something  that  made  each 
tree,  each  rock,  each  foot  of  soil  a 
Webster  tree  or  rock  or  piece  of 
soil.  It  all  belonged. 

John  J.,  the  first  John  J.,  had 
come  after  the  breakup  of  the  cities, 
after  men  had  forsaken,  once  and 
for  all,  the  twentieth  century  hud- 
dling places,  had  broken  free  of  the 
tribal  instinct  to  stick  together  in 
one  cave  or  in  one  clearing  against 
a common  foe  or  a common  fear. 
An  instinct  that  had  become  out- 
moded, for  there  were  no  fears  or 
foes.  Man  revolting  against  the 
herd  instinct  economic  and  social 
conditions  had  impressed  upon  him 
in  ages  past.  A new  security  and  a 
new  sufficiency  had  made  it  possible 
to  break  away. 

The  trend  had  started  back  in 
the  twentieth  century,  more  than 
two  hundred  years  before,  when 
men  moved  to  country  homes  to  get 
fresh  air  and  elbow  room  and  a 
graciousness  in  life  that  communal 
existence,  in  its  strictest  sense, 
never  had  given  them. 

And  here  was  the  end  result.  A 
quiet  living.  A peace  that  could 
only  come  with  good  things.  The 
sort  of  life  that  men  had  yearned 
for  years  to  have.  A manorial  ex- 
istence, based  on  old  family  homes 
and  leisurely  acres,  with  atomics 
supplying  power  and  robots  in  place 
of  serfs. 

Webster  smiled  at  the  fireplace 
with  its  blazing  wood.  That  was  an 
anachronism,  but  a good  one — 
something  that  Man  had  brought 
forward  from  the  caves.  Useless, 
because  atomic  heating  was  better 
— but  more  pleasant.  One  couldn’t 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


sit  and  watch  atomics  and  dream 
and  build  castles  ill  the  flames. 

Even  the  crypt  out  there,  where 
they  had  put  his  father  that  after- 
noon. That  was  family,  too.  All 
of  a piece  with  the  rest  of  it.  The 
somber  pride  and  leisured  life  and 
peace.  In  the  old  days  the  dead 
were  buried  in  vast  plots  all  to- 
gether. stranger  cheek  by  jowl  with 
stranger — 

Fie  never  goes  anywhere. 

That  is  what  Jenkins  had  told  the 
minister. 

And  that  was  right.  For  what 
need  was  there  to  go  anywhere? 
It  all  was  here.  By  simply  twirling 
a dial  one  could  talk  face  to  face 
with  anyone  one  wished,  could  go, 
by  sense,  if  not  in  body,  anywhere 
one  wished.  Could  attend  the 
theater  or  hear  a concert  or  browse 
in  a library  halfway  around  the 
world.  Could  transact  any  business 
one  might  need  to  transact  without 
rising  from  one's  chair. 


Webster  reached  out  his  hand 
and  drank  the  whiskey,  then  swung 
to  the  dialed  machine  beside  his 
desk. 

He  spun  dials  from  memory 
without  resorting  to  the  log.  He 
knew  where  he  was  going. 

His  finger  flipped  a toggle  and 
the  room  melted  away — or  seemed 
to  melt.  There  was  left  the  chair 
within  which  he  sat,  part  of  the 
desk,  part  of  the  machine  itself  and 
that  was  all. 

The  chair  was  on  a hillside  swept 
with  golden  grass  and  dotted  with 
scraggly,  wind-twisted  trees,  a hill- 
side that  straggled  down  to  a lake 
nestling  in  the  grip  of  purple  moun- 
tain spurs.  The  spurs,  darkened 
in  long  streaks  with  the  bluish- 
green  of  distant  pine,  climbed  in 
staggering  stairs,  melting  into  the 
blue-tinged  snow-capped  peaks  that 
reared  beyond  and  above  them  in 
jagged  saw-toothed  outline. 

The  wind  talked  harshly  in  the 


huddling  place 


1ST 


crouching  trees  and  ripped  the  long 
grass  in  sudden  gusts.  The  last 
rays  of  the  sun  struck  fire  from  the 
distant  peaks. 

Solitude  and  grandeur,  the  long 
sweep  of  tumbled  land,  the  cuddled 
lake,  the  knifelike  shadows  on  the 
far-off  ranges. 

Webster  sat  easily  in  his  chair, 
eyes  squinting  at  the  peaks. 

A voice  said  almost  at  his  shoul- 
der: “May  I come  in?” 

A soft,  sibilant  voice,  wholly  un- 
human. But  one  that  Webster 
knew. 

He  nodded  his  head.  "By  all 
means,  Juwain.” 

He  turned  slightly  and  saw  the 
elaborate  crouching  pedestal,  the 
furry,  soft-eyed  figure  of  the  Mar- 
tian squatting  on  it.  Other  alien 
furniture  loomed  indistinctly  be- 
yond the  pedestal,  half  guessed  fur- 
niture from  that  dwelling  out  on 
Mars. 

The  Martian  flipped  a furry  hand 
toward  the  mountain  range. 

“You  love  this,”  he  said.  “You 
can  understand  it.  And  I can  un- 
derstand how  you  understand  it, 
but  to  me  there  is  more  terror  than 
beauty  in  it.  It  is  something  we 
could  never  have  on  Mars.” 

Webster  reached  out  a hand,  but 
the  Martian  stopped  him. 

“Leave  it  on,”  he  said.  “I  know 
why  you  came  here.  I would  not 
have  come  at  a time  like  this  ex- 
cept I thought  perhaps  an  old 
friend — ” 

“It  is  kind  of  you,”  said  Webster. 
“I  am  glad  that  you  have  come.” 

“Your  father,”  said  Juwain, 
“was  a great  man.  I remember 

13* 


how  you  used  to  talk  to  me  of  him, 
those  years  you  spent  on  Mars. 
You  said  then  you  would  come  back 
sometime.  Why  is  it  you’ve  never 
come  ?” 

“Why,”  said  Webster,  “I  just 
never — ” 

“Do  not  tell  me,”  said  the  Mar- 
tian. “I  already  know.” 

“My  son,”  said  Webster,  “is  go- 
ing to  Mars  in  a few  days.  I shall 
have  him  call  on  you.” 

“That  would  be  a pleasure,”  said 
Juwain.  “I  shall  be  expecting  him.” 
He  stirred  uneasily  on  the 
crouching  pedestal.  “Perhaps  he 
carries  on  tradition.” 

“No,”  said  Webster.  “He  is 
studying  engineering.  He  never 
cared  for  surgery.” 

“He  has  a right,”  observed  the 
Martian,  “to  follow  the  life  that  he 
has  chosen.  Still,  one  might  be 
permitted  to  wish.” 

“One  could,”  Webster  agreed. 
“But  that  is  over  and  done  with. 
Perhaps  he  will  be  a great  engineer. 
Space  structure.  Talks  of  ships  out 
to  the  stars.” 

“Perhaps,”  suggested  Juwain, 
“your  family  has  done  enough  for 
medical  science.  You  and  your 
father — ” 

“And  his  father,”  said  Webster, 
“before  him.” 

“Your  book,”  declared  Juwain, 
“has  put  Mars  in  debt  to  you.  It 
may  focus  more  attention  on  Mar- 
tian specialization.  My  people  do 
not  make  good  doctors.  They  have 
no  background  for  it.  Queer  how 
the  minds  of  races  run.  Queer  that 
Mars  never  thought  of  medicine — 
literally  never  thought  of  it.  Re- 

ASTOUND1XG  SCIENCE-FICTTON 


placed  it  with  a cult  of  fatalism. 
While  even  in  your  early  history, 
when  men  still  lived  in  caves — ” 

“There  are  many  things,”  said 
Webster,  “that  you  thought  of  and 
we  didn’t.  Things  we  wonder  now 
how  we  ever  missed.  Abilities  that 
you  developed  and  we  do  not  have. 
Take  your  own  specialty,  philos- 
ophy. But  different  than  ours.  A 
science,  while  ours  never  was  more 
than  fumbling.  An  orderly,  logical 
development  of  philosophy,  work- 
able, practical,  applicable,  an  actual 
tool.” 

Juwain  started  to  speak,  hesi- 
tated, then  went  ahead.  “I  am 
near  to  something,  something  that 
may  be  new  and  startling.  Some- 
thing that  will  be  a too!  for  you 
humans  as  well  as  the  Martians. 
I’ve  worked  on  it  for  years,  starting 
with  certain  mental  concepts  that 
first  were  suggested  to  me  with  ar- 
rival of  the  Earthmen.  I have  said 
nothing,  f-or  I could  not  be  sure.” 

“And  now,”  suggested  Webster, 
“you  are  sure.” 

“Not  quite,”  said  Juwain.  “Not 
positive.  But  almost.” 

They  sat  in  silence,  watching  the 
mountains  and  the  lake.  A bird 
came  and  sat  in  one  of  the  scraggly 
trees  and  sang.  Dark  clouds  piled 
up  behind  the  mountain  ranges  and 
the  snow-tipped  peaks  stood  out 
like  graven  stone.  The  sun  sank  in 
a welter  of  crimson,  hushed  finally 
to  the  glow  of  a fire  burned  low. 

A tap  sounded  from  a door  and 
Webster  stirred  in  his  chair,  sud- 
denly brought  back  to  the  reality  of 
the  study,  of  the  chair  beneath  him. 

HUDDLING  PLACE 


Juwain  was  gone.  The  old  phil- 
osopher had  come  and  sat  an  hour 
of  contemplation  with  his  friend 
and  then  had  quietly  slipped  away. 

The  rap  came  again. 

Webster  leaned  forward,  snapped 
the  toggle  and  the  mountains  van- 
ished, the  room  became  a room 
again.  Dusk  filtered  through  the 
high  windows  and  the  fire  was  a 
rosy  flicker  in  the  ashes. 

“Come  in,”  said  Webster. 

Jenkins  opened  the  door.  “Din- 
ner is  served,  sir,”  he  said. 

“Thank  you,”  said  Webster.  He 
rose  slowly  from  the  chair. 

“Your  place,  sir,”  said  Jenkins, 
“is  laid  at  the  head  of  the  table.” 

“Ah,  yes,”  said  Webster.  “Thank 
you,  Jenkins.  Thank  you  very 
much,  for  reminding  me.” 

Webster  stood  on  the  broad  ramp 
of  the  space  field  and  watched  the 
shape  that  dwindled  in  the  sky, 
dwindled  with  faint  flickering 

is# 


points  of  red  lancing  through  the 
wintry  sunlight. 

For  long  minutes  after  the  shape 
was  gone  he  stood  there,  hands 
gripping  the  railing  in  front  of  him, 
eyes  still  staring  up  into  the  steel- 
like blue. 

His  lips  moved  and  they  said: 
“Good-by,  son” ; but  there  was  no 
sound. 

Slowly  he  came  alive  to  his  sur- 
roundings. Knew  that  people 
moved  about  the  ramp,  saw  that 
the  landing  field  seemed  to  stretch 
interminably  to  the  far  horizon, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  hump- 
backed things  that  were  waiting 
.spaceships.  Scooting  tractors 
worked  near  one  hangar,  clearing 
away  the  last  of  the  snowfall  of  the 
night  before. 

Webster  shivered  and  thought 
that  it  was  queer,  for  the  noonday 
sun  was  warm.  And  shivered 
again. 

Slowly  he  turned  away  from  the 
railing  and  headed  for  the  adminis- 
tration building.  And  for  one  brain- 
wrenching  moment  he  felt  a sudden 
I fear — an  unreasonable  and  embar- 
rassing fear  of  that  stretch  of  con- 
crete that  formed  the  ramp.  A 
fear  that  left  him  shaking  mentally 
as  he  drove  his  feet  toward  the 
waiting  door. 

A man  walked  toward  him.  brief- 
case swinging  in  his  hand  and  W eb- 
ster,  eying  him,  wished  fervently 
that  the  man  would  not  speak  to 
him. 

The  man  did  not  speak,  passed 
him  with  scarcely  a glance  and 
Webster  felt  relief. 

It  he  were  back  home,  Webster 


told  himself,  he  would  have  finished 
lunch,  would  now  be  ready  to  lie 
down  for  his  midday  nap.  The  fire 
would  be  blazing  on  the  hearth  and 
the  flicker  of  the  flames  would  be 
reflected  from  the  andirons.  Jen- 
kins would  bring  him  a liqueur  and 
would  say  a word  or  two — incon- 
sequential conversation. 

He  hurried  toward  the  door, 
quickening  his  step,  anxious  to  get 
%,vay  from  the  bare-cold  expanse 
of  the  massive  ramp.  ' 

Funny  how  he  had  felt  about 
Thomas.  Natural,  of  course,  that 
he  should  have  hated  to  see  him 
go.  But  entirely  unnatural  that  he 
should,  in  those  last  few  minutes, 
find  such  horror  welling  up  within 
him.  Horror  of  the  trip  through 
space,  horror  of  the  alien  land  of 
Mars — although  Mars  was  scarcely 
alien  any  longer.  For  more  than  a 
century  now  Earthmen  had  known 
it,  had  fought  it,  lived  with  it,  some 
of  them  had  even  grown  to  love  it. 

But  it  had  only  been  utter  will 
power  that  had  prevented  him,  in 
those  last  few  seconds  before  the 
ship  had  taken  off,  from  running 
out  into  the  field,  shrieking  for 
Thomas  to  come  back,  shrieking 
for  him  not  to  go. 

And  that,  of  course,  never  would 
have  done.  It  would  have  been  ex- 
hibitionism, disgraceful  and  humili- 
ating— the  sort  of  a thing  a Web- 
ster could  not  do. 

After  all,  he  told  himself,  a trip 
to  Mars  was  no  great  adventure, 
not  any  longer.  There  had  been  a 
day  when  it  had  been,  but  that  day 
was  gone  forever.  He,  himself, 
in  his  earlier  days  had  made  a trip 


140 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


to  Mars,  had  stayed  there  for  five 
long  years.  That  had  been — he 
gasped  when  he  thought  of  it — that 
had  been  almost  thirty  years  ago. 

The  babble  and  hum  of  the  lobby 
hit  him  in  the  face  as  the  robot  at- 
tendant opened  the  door  for  him, 
and  in  that  babble  ran  a vein  of 
something  that  was  almost  terror. 
For  a moment  he  hesitated,  then 
stepped  inside.  The  door  closed 
softly  behind  him. 

He  stayed  close  to  the  one  wall 
to  keep  out  of  people's  way,  headed 
for  a chair  in  one  corner.  He  sat 
down  and  huddled  back,  forcing  his 
body  deep  into  the  cushions,  watch- 
ing the  milling  humanity  that 
seethed  out  in  the  room. 

Shrill  people,  hurrying  people, 
people  with  strange,  unneighborly 
faces.  Strangers — every  one  of 
them.  Not  a face  he  knew.  People 
going  places.  Heading  out  for  the 
planets.  Anxious  to  be  off.  Wor- 
ried about  last  details.  Rushing 
here  and  there. 

Out  of  the  crowd  loomed  a 
familiar  face.  Webster  hunched 
forward. 

“Jenkins !”  he  shouted,  and  then 
was  sorry  for  the  shout,  although 
no  one  seemed  to  notice. 

The  robot  moved  toward  him, 
stood  before  him. 

“Tell  Raymond,”  said  Webster, 
“that  I must  return  immediately. 
Tell  him  to  bring  the  ’copter  in 
front  at  once.” 

“I  am  sorry,  sir,”  said  Jenkins, 
"but  we  cannot  leave  at  once.  The 
mechanics  found  a flaw  in  the 
atomics  chamber.  They  are  in- 


stalling a new  one.  It  will  take 
several  hours.” 

“Surely,”  said  Webster,  impa- 
tiently, “that  could  wait  until  some 
other  time.” 

“The  mechanic  said  not,  sir,” 
Jenkins  told  him.  "It  might  go 
at  any  minute.  The  entire  charge 
of  power — ” 

"Yes,  yes,”  agreed  Webster,  “I 
suppose  so.” 

He  fidgeted  with  his  hat.  “I  just 
remembered,”  he  said,  “something 
I must  do.  Something  that  must 
be  done  at  once.  I must  get  home. 
I can't  wait  several  hours.” 

He  hitched  forward  to  the  edge 
of  the  chair,  eyes  staring  at  the 
milling  crowd. 

Faces — faces — 

“Perhaps  you  could  televise,” 
suggested  Jenkins.  “One  of  the 
robots  might  be  able  to  do  it.  There 
is  a booth — ” 

“Wait,  Jenkins,”  said  Webster. 
He  hesitated  a moment.  “There  is 
nothing  to  do  back  home.  Nothing 
at  ail.  But  I must  get  there.  I 
can’t  stay  here.  If  I have  to,  I’ll 
go  crazy.  I was  frightened  out 
there  on  the  ramp.  I’m  bewildered 
and  confused  here.  I have  a feel- 
ing— a strange,  terrible  feeling. 
Jenkins,  I — ” 

“I  understand,  sir,”  said  Jenkins, 
“Your  father  had  it,  too.” 

Webster  gasped.  “My  father?” 

“Yes,  sir,  that  is  why  he  never 
went  anywhere.  He  was  about 
your  age,  sir,  when  he  found  it  out. 
He  tried  to  make  a trip  to  Europe 
and  he  couldn-’t.  He  got  halfway 
there  and  turned  back.  He  had  a 
name  for  it.” 


HUDDLING  PLACE 


141 


Webster  sat  in  stricken  silence. 

"A  name  for  it,”  he  finally  said. 
"Of  course  there’s  a name  for  it. 
My  father  had  it.  My  grandfather 
— did  he  have  it,  too?” 

“I  wouldn’t  know  that,  sir,”  said 
Jenkins.  “I  wasn’t  created  until 
after  your  grandfather  was  an  eld- 
erly man.  But  he  may  have.  He 
never  went  anywhere,  either.” 

“You  understand,  then,”  said 
Webster.  “You  know  how  it  is.  I 
feel  like  I’m  going  to  be  sick — 
physically  ill.  See  if  you  can  charter 
a ’copter — anything,  just  so  we  get 
home.” 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  Jenkins. 

He  started  off  and  Webster  called 
him  back. 

“Jenkins,  does  anyone  else  know 


about  this  ? Anyone — ” 

“No,  sir,”  said  Jenkins.  “Your 
father  never  mentioned  it  and  I 
felt,  somehow,  that  he  wouldn’t 
wish  me  to.” 

“Thank  you,  Jenkins,”  said  Web- 
ster. 

Webster  huddled  back  into  his 
chair  again,  felt  desolate  and  alone 
and  misplaced.  Alone  in  a hum- 
ming lobby  that  pulsed  with  life — 
a loneliness  that  tore  at  him,  that 
left  him  limp  and  weak. 

Homesickness.  Downright, 

shameful  homesickness,  he  told 
himself.  Something  that  boys  are 
supposed  to  feel  when  they  first 
leave  home,  when  they  first  go  out 
to  meet  the  world. 

There  was  a fancy  word  for  it — 
agoraphobia,  the  morbid  dread  of 
being  in  the  midst  of  open  spaces — 
from  the  Greek  root  for  the  fear— 
literally,  of  the  market  place. 

If  he  crossed  the  room  to  the 
television  booth,  he  could  put  in  a 
call,  talk  with  his  mother  or  one  of 
the  robots — or  better  yet,  just  sit 
and  look  at  the  .place  until  Jenkins 
came  for  him. 

He  started  to  rise,  then  sank  back 
in  the  chair  again.  It  was  no  dice. 
Just  talking  to  someone  or  looking 
in  on  the  place  wasn’t  being  there. 
He  couldn’t  smell  the  pines  in  the 
wintry  air,  or  hear  familiar  snow 
crunch  on  the  walk  beneath  his  feet 
or  reach  out  a hand  and  touch  one 
of  the  massive  oaks  that  grew'  along 
the  path.  He  couldn’t  feel  the  heat 
of  the  fire  or  sense  the  sure,  deft 
touch  of  belonging,  of  being  one 
with  a tract  of  ground  and  the 
things  upon  it. 


142 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


And  yet — perhaps  it  would  help. 
Not  much,  maybe,  but  some.  He 
started  to  rise  from  the  chair  again 
and  froze.  The  few  short  steps  to 
the  booth  held  terror,  a territfle, 
overwhelming  terror.  If  he  crossed 
them,  he  would  have  to  run.  Run 
to  escape  the  watching  eyes,  the  un- 
familiar sounds,  the  agonizing  near- 
ness of  strange  faces. 

Abruptly  he  sat  down. 

A woman’s  shrill  voice  cut  across 
the  lobby  and  he  shrank  away  from 
it.  He  felt  terrible.  He  felt  like 
hell.  He  wished  Jenkins  would 
hurry  up. 

The  first  breath  of  spring  came 
through  the  window,  filled  the  study 
with  the  promise  of  melting  snows, 
of  coming  leaves  and  flowers,  of 
north-bound  wedges  of  waterfowl 
streaming  through  the  blue,  of 
trout  that  lurked  in  pools  waiting 
for  the  fly. 

Webster  lilted  his  eyes  from  the 
sheaf  of  papers  on  his  desk,  sniffed 
the  breeze,  felt  the  cool  whisper  of 
it  on  his  cheek.  His  hand  reached 
out  for  the  brandy  glass  and  found 
it  empty,  put  it  back. 

He  bent  back  above  the  papers 
once  again,  picked  up  a pencil  and 
crossed  out  a word. 

Critically,  he  read  the  final  para- 
graphs : 

The  fact  that  the  two  hundred  fifty 
men  who  were  invited  to  visit  me,  pre- 
sumably on  missions  of  more  than  ordi- 
nary importance,  only  three  were  able  to 
come,  does  not  necessarily  prove  that  all 
but  those  three  are  victims  of  agorapho- 
bia. Some  may  have  had  legitimate  rea- 
sons for  being  unable  to  accept  my  invi- 


tation. But  it  does  indicate  a growing 
unwillingness  for  men  living  under  the 
mode  of  Earth  existence  set  up  following 
the  break  up  of  the  cities  to  move  from 
familiar  places,  a deepening  instinct  to 
stay  among  the  scenes  and  possessions 
which  in  their  mind  have  become  asso- 
ciated with  contentment  and  gracious- 
ness of  life. 

What  the  result  of  such  a trend  will 
be,  no  one  can  dearly  indicate  since  it 
applies  to  only  a small  portion  of  Earth's 
population.  Among  the  larger  families 
economic  pressure  forces  some  of  the 
sons  to  seek  their  fortunes  either  iti  other 
parts  of  the  Earth  or  on  one  of  the  other 
planets.  Many  others  deliberately  seek 
adventure  and  opportunity  in  space  while 
still  others  become  associated  with  pro- 
fessions or  trades  which  make  a seden- 
tary existence  impossible. 

He  flipped  the  page  over,  went  on 
to  the  last  one. 

It  was  a good  paper,  he  knew, 
but  it  could  not  be  published,  not 
just  yet.  Perhaps  after  he  had  died. 
No  one,  so  far  as  he  could  deter- 
mine, had  ever  so  much  as  realized 
the  trend,  had  taken  as  matter  of 
course  the  fact  that  men  seldom  left 
their  homes.  Why,  after  all,  should 
they  leave  their  homes? 

Certain  dangers  may  be  recognised  in — 

The  televisor  muttered  at  his  el- 
bow and  he  reached  out  to  flip  the 
toggle. 

The  room  faded  and  he  was  face 
to  face  with  a man  who  sat  behind 
a desk,  almost  as  if  he  sat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  Webster’s  desk.  A 
gray-haired  man  with  sad  eyes  be- 
hind heavy  lenses,  eyes  that  were 
filled  with  the  sadness  and  humility 
of  having  looked  on  death  and 
misery,  compassionate  eyes. 


HUDDLING  PLACBJ 


14S 


For  a moment  Webster  stared, 
memory  tugging  at  him. 

“Could  it  be — ’’  he  asked  and  the 
man  smiled  gravely. 

“I  have  changed,”  he  said.  “So 
have  you.  My  name  is  Clayborne. 
Remember?  The  Martian  medical 
commission — ” 

“Clayborne!  I’d  often  thought 
of  you.  You  stayed  on  Mars.” 
Clayborne  nodded.  “I’ve  read 
your  book,  doctor.  It  is  a real  con- 
tribution. I’ve  often  thought  one 
should  be  written,  wanted  to  my- 
self, but  I didn’t  have  the  time. 
Just  as  well  I didn’t.  You  did  a 
better  job.  Especially  on  the  brain.” 
“The  Martian  brain,”  Webster 
told  him,  "always  intrigued  me. 
Certain  peculiarities.  I’m  afraid  I 
spent  more  of  those  five  years  tak- 
ing notes  on  it  than  I should  have. 
There  was  other  work  to  do.” 

“A  good  thing  you  did,”  said 
Clayborne.  “That's  why  I’m  call- 
ing you  now.  I have  a patient — a 
brain  operation.  Only  you  can  han- 
dle it.” 

Webster  gasped,  his  hands  trem- 
bling. “You’ll  bring  him  here?” 
Clayborne  shook  his  head.  “He 
cannot  be  moved.  You  know  him, 
I believe.  Juwain,  the  philosopher.” 
“Juwain!”  said  Webster.  “He’s 
one  of  my  best  friends.  We  talked 
together  just  a couple  of  days  ago.” 
“The  attack  was  sudden,”  said 
Clayborne.  “He’s  been  asking  for 
you.” 

Webster  was  silent  and  cold — 
cold  with  a chill  that  crept  upon  him 
from  some  unguessed  place.  Cold 

144 


that  sent  perspiration  out  upon  his 
forehead,  that  knotted  his  fists. 

“If  you  start  immediately,”  said 
Qayborne,  “you  can  be  here  on 
time.  I’ve  already  arranged  with 
the  World  Committee  to  have  a ship 
at  your  disposal  instantly.  The  ut- 
most speed  is  necessary.” 

“Rut,”  said  Webster,  “but  ...  I 
cannot  come.” 

“You  can’t  come!” 

“It’s  impossible,”  said  Webster. 
“I  doubt  in  any  case  that  I am 
needed.  Surely,  you  yourself — ” 

“I  can’t,”  said  Clayborne.  “No 
one  can  but  you.  No  one  else  has 
the  knowledge.  You  hold  Juwain’s 
life  in  your  hands.  If  you  come, 
he  lives.  If  you  don’t,  he  dies.” 

“I  can’t  go  into  space,”  said 
Webster. 

“Anyone  can  go  in  space,” 
snapped  Clayborne.  “It’s  not  like 
it  used  to  be.  Conditioning  of  any 
sort  desired  is  available.” 

“But  you  don’t  understand,” 
pleaded  Webster.  “You — ” 

“No,  I don’t,”  said  Clayborne. 
“Frankly,  I don’t.  That  anyone 
should  refuse  to  save  the  life  of  his 
friend—” 

The  two  men  stared  at  one  an- 
other for  a long  moment,  neither 
speaking. 

“I  shall  tell  the  committee  to  send 
the  ship  straight  to  your  home,” 
said  Clayborne  finally.  “I  hope  by 
that  time  you  will  see  your  way 
clear  to  come.” 

Clayborne  faded  and  the  wall 
came  into  view  again — the  wall  and 
books,  the  fireplace  and  the  paint- 
ings, the  well-loved  furniture,  the 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-riCTTON 


promise  of  spring  that  came 
through  the  window. 

Webster  sat  frozen  in  his  chair, 
staring  at  the  wall  in  front  of  him. 

Juwain,  the  furry,  wrinkled  face, 
the  sibilant  whisper,  the  friendliness 
and  understanding  that  was  his. 
Juwain,  grasping  the  stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of  and  shaping 
them  into  logic,  into  rules  of  life 
and  conduct.  Juwain  using  philos- 
ophy as  a tool,  as  a science,  as  a 
stepping  stone  to  better  living. 

Webster  dropped  his  face  into 
his  hands  and  fought  the  agony  that 
welled  up  within  him. 

Clayborne  had  not  understood. 
One  could  not  expect  him  to  un- 
derstand since  there  was  no  way 
for  him  to  know.  And  even  know- 
ing, would  he  understand?  Even 
he,  Webster,  would  not  have  under- 
stood it  in  someone  else  until  he 
had  discovered  it  in  himself — the 
terrible  fear  of  leaving  his  own  fire, 
his  own  land,  his  own  possessions, 
the  little  symbolisms  that  he  had 
erected.  And  yet,  not  he,  himself, 
alone,  but  those  other  Websters  as 
well.  Starting  with  the  first  John  J. 
Men  and  women  who  had  set  up  a 
cult  of  life,  a tradition  of  behavior. 

He,  Jerome  A.  Webster,  had 
gone  to  Mars  when  he  was  a young 
man,  and  had  not  felt  or  suspected 
the  psychological  poison  that  ran 
through  his  veins.  Even  as  Thomas 
a few  months  ago  had  gone  to 
Mars.  But  twenty-five  years  of 
quiet  life  here  in  the  retreat  that 
the  Websters  called  a home  had 
brought  it  forth,  had  developed  it 
without  him  even  knowing  it. 


HE  NEEDS  81  TONS 
OF  SUPPLIES 
A MONTH 
TO  WIN 
HIS  FIGHT.  . . 

WHAT  ARE  YOU 
DOING  TO  HELP  ? 

AMAZING  BUT  TRUE— 

It  takes  81  tons  of  supplies  a month  to 
keep  a soldier  overseas.  That's  a large 
order  . . . and  it's  got  to  be  filled! 

Huge  quantities  of  paper  are  needed  for 
this  . . . for  arms  containers,  for  targets, 
food  cartons,  U.  S.  Army  Field  Ration 
"K",  and  many  other  things. 

Thot's  why  the  government  is  asking 
YOU  to  help  that  boy  overseas  by  col- 
lecting every  scrap  o.f  waste  paper  you 
can.  Get  your  friends  to  pitch  in  . . . 
form  groups  . . . interest  your  whole 
neighborhood  in  this  drive.  Paper  is  vital 
to  the  winning  of  the  war  . . . and  to 
prevent  a disastrous  shortage  . . . 

GET  IN  THERE  . . . 

SAVE  WASTE  PAPER 
TO  SAVE  THEIR  LIVES! 


HUDDLING  PLACE) 


1*5 


There  had,  in  fact,  been  no  oppor- 
tunity to  know  it. 

It  was  clear  how  it  had  developed 
— clear  as  crystal  now.  Habit  and 
mental  pattern  and  a happiness  as- 
sociation with  certain  things — 
things  that  had  no  actual  value  in 
themselves,  but  had  been  assigned 
a value,  a definite,  concrete  value 
by  one  family  through  five  gen- 
erations. 

No  wonder  other  places  seemed 
alien,  no  wonder  other  horizons  held 
a hint  of  horror  in  their  sweep. 

And  there  was  nothing  one  could 
do  about  it — nothing,  that  is,  unless 
one  cut  down  every  tree  and  burned 
the  house  and  changed  the  course 
of  waterways.  Even  that  might  not 
do  it — even  that — 

The  televisor  purred  and  Webster 
lifted  his  head  from  his  hands, 
reached  out  and  thumbed  the  tum- 
bler. 

The  room  became  a flare  of 
white,  but  there  was  no  image.  A 
voice  said:  “Secret  call.  Secret 

call.” 

Webster  slid  back  a panel  in  the 
machine,  spun  a pair  of  dials,  heard 
the  hum  of  power  surge  into  a 
screen  that  blocked  out  the  room. 

“Secrecy  established,”  he  said. 

The  white  flare  snapped  out  and 
a man  sat  across  the  desk  from  him. 
A man  he  had  seen  many  times 
before  in  televised  addresses,  in 
his  daily  paper. 

Henderson,  president  of  the 
World  Committee, 

“I  have  had  a call  from  Clay- 
borne,”  said  Henderson. 

Webster  nodded  without  speak- 
ing. 

146 


"He  tells  me  you  refuse  to  go  to 
Mars." 

I “I  have  not  refused,”  said  Web- 
ster. “When  Clayborne  cut  off  the 
question  was  left  open.  I had  told 
him  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  go, 
but  he  had  rejected  that,  did  not 
seem  to  understand.” 

“Webster,  you  must  go,”  snapped 
Henderson.  “You  are  the  only 
man  with  the  necessary  knowledge 
of  the  Martian  brain  to  perform 
this  operation.  If  it  were  a simple 
operation,  perhaps  someone  else 
could  do  it.  But  not  one  such  as 
this.” 

“That  may  be  true,”  said  Web- 
ster, ‘‘but — ” 

“It’s  not  just  a question  of  saving 
a life,”  said  Henderson.  “Even  the 
life  of  so  distinguished  a personage 
as  Juwain.  It  involves  even  more 
than  that.  Juwain  is  a friend  of 
yours.  Perhaps  he  hinted  of  some- 
thing he  has  found.” 

“Yes,”  said  Webster.  “Yes,  he 
did.  A new  concept  of  philosophy.” 
“A  concept,”  declared  Hender- 
son, “that  we  cannot  do  without. 
A concept  that  will  remake  the 
solar  system,  that  will  put  mankind 
ahead  a hundred  thousand  years  in 
the  space  of  two  generations.  A 
new  direction  of  purpose  that  will 
aim  toward  a goal  we  heretofore 
had  not  suspected,  had  not  even 
known  existed.  A brand  new  truth, 
you  see.  One  that  never  before  had 
occurred  to  anyone.” 

Webster’s  hands  gripped  the  edge 
of  the  desk  until  his  knuckles  stood 
out  while. 

“If  Juwain  dies,”  said  ITender- 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE.  FICTION 


son,  “i'll, it  concept  dies  with  him. 
May  be  lost  forever.” 

“I'll  try,”  said  Webster.  “I'll 
try—” 

Henderson's  eyes  were  hard.  "Is 
that  the  best  that  you  can  do  ?” 
“That  is  the  best,”  said  Webster. 
“But,  man,  you  must  have  a 
reason!  Some  explanation.” 
“None,”  said  Webster,  “that  I 
would  care  to  give.” 

Deliberately  he  reached  out  and 
flipped  up  the  switch. 

Webster  sat  at  the  desk  and  held 
his  hands  in  front  of  him,  staring 
at  them.  Hands  that  had  skill,  held 
knowledge.  Hands  that  could  save 
a life  if  he  could  get  them  to  Mars. 
Hands  that  could  save  for  the  solar 
system,  for  mankind,  for  the  Mar- 
tians an  idea — a new  idea — that 
would  advance  them  a hundred 
thousand  years  iu  the  next  two 
generations. 


But  hands  chained  byr  a phobia 
that  grew  out  of  this  quiet  life. 
Decadence — a strangely  beautiful — 
and  deadly — decadence. 

Man  had  forsaken  the  teeming 
cities,  the  huddling  places,  two  hun- 
dred years  ago.  He  had  done  with 
the  old  foes  and  the  ancient  tears 
that  kept  him  around  the  common 
campfire,  had  left  behind  the  hob- 
goblins that  had  walked  with  him 
from  the  caves. 

And  yet — and  yet— 

Here  was  another  huddling  place. 
Not  a huddling  place  for  one’s  body, 
but  one’s  mind.  A psychological 
campfire  that  still  held  a man  within 
the  circle  of  its  light. 

Still,  Webster  knew,  he  must 
leave  that  fire.  As  the  men  had 
done  with  the  cities  two  centuries 
before,  he  must  walk  off  and  leave 
it.  And  he  must  not  look  hack. 

He  had  to  go  to  Mars — or  at 
least  start  for  Mars.  There  was  no 


HUDDLING  PLACID 


AST— 6H  147 


question  there,  at  all.  He  had  to  go. 

Whether  he  would  survive  the 
trip,  whether  he  could  perform  the 
operation  once  he  had  arrived,  he 
did  not  know.  He  wondered 
vaguely,  whether  agoraphobia  could 
be  fatal.  In  its  most  exaggerated 
form,  he  supposed  it  could. 

He  reached  out  a hand  to  ring, 
then  hesitated.  No  use  having  Jen- 
kins pack.  He  would  do  it  himself 
—something  to  keep  him  busy  until 
the  ship  arrived. 

From  the  top  shelf  of  the  ward- 
robe in  the  bedroom,  he  took  down 
a bag  and  saw  that  it  was  dusty. 
He  blew  on  it,  but  the  dust  still 
clung.  It  had  been  there  for  too 
many  years. 

As  he  packed,  the  room  argued 
with  him,  talked  in  that  mute  tongue 
with  which  inanimate  but  familiar 
things  may  converse  with  a man. 

“You  can’t  go,”  said  the  room. 
“You  can’t  go  off  and  leave  me.” 

And  Webster  argued  back,  half 
pleading,  half  explanatory.  “I  have 
to  go.  Can’t  you  understand.  It’s 
a friend,  an  old  friend.  I will  be 
coming  back.” 

Packing  done,  Webster  returned 
to  the  study,  slumped  into  his  chair. 

He  must  go  and  yet  he  couldn’t 
go.  But  when  the  ship  arrived, 
when  the  time  had  come,  he  knew 
that  he  would  walk  out  of  the 
house  and  toward  the  waiting  ship. 

He  steeled  his  mind  to  that,  tried 
to  set  it  in  a rigid  pattern,  tried 
to  blank  out  everything  but  the 
thought  that  he  was  leaving. 

Things  in  the  room  intruded  on 
his  brain,  as  if  they  were  part  of  a 
conspiracy  to  keep  him  there. 

U8 


Things  that  he  saw  as  if  he  were 
seeing  them  for  the  first  time.  Old, 
remembered  things  that  suddenly 
were  new.  The  chronometer  that 
showed  both  Earthian  and  Martian 
time,  the  days  of  the  month,  the 
phases  of  the  moon.  The  picture 
of  his  dead  wife  on  the  desk.  The 
trophy  he  had  won  at  prep  school. 
The  framed  short  snorter  bill  that 
had  cost  him  ten  bucks  on  his  trip 
to  Mars. 

He  stared  at  them,  half  unwilling 
at  first,  then  eagerly,  storing  up 
the  memory  of  them  in  his  brain. 
Seeing  them  as  separate  components 
of  a room  he  had  accepted  all  these 
years  as  a finished  whole,  never 
realizing  what  a multitude  of  things 
went  to  make  it  up. 

Dusk  was  falling,  the  dusk  of 
early  spring,  a dusk  that  smelled 
of  early  pussy  willows. 

The  ship  should  have  arrived 
long  ago.  He  caught  himself  listen- 
ing for  it,  even  as  he  realized  that 
he  would  not  hear  it.  A ship, 
driven  by  atomic  motors,  was  silent 
except  when  it  gathered  speed. 
Landing  and  taking  off,  it  floated 
like  thistledown,  with  not  a murmur 
in  it. 

It  would  be  here  soon.  It  would 
have  to  be  here  soon  or  he  could 
never  go.  Much  longer  to  wait,  he 
knew,  and  his  high-keyed  resolu- 
tion would  crumble  like  a mound  of 
dust  in  beating  rain.  Not  much 
longer  could  he  hold  his  purpose 
against  the  pleading  of  the  roo-m, 
against  the  flicker  of  the  fire, 
against  the  murmur  of  the  land 
where  five  generations  of  Websters 
had  lived  and  died. 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


He  shut  his  eyes  and  fought 
down  the  chill  that  crept  across  his 
body.  He  couldn’t  let  it  get  him 
now,  he  told  himself.  He  had  to 
stick  it  out.  When  the  ship  arrived 
he  still  must  be  able  to  get  up  and 
walk  out  the  door  to  the  waiting 
port. 

A tap  came  on  the  door. 

“Come  in,”  Webster  called. 

If  was  Jenkins,  the  light  from 
the  fireplace  flickering  on  his  shin- 
ing metal  hide. 

“Had  you  called  earlier,  sir?”  he 
asked. 

Webster  shook  his  head. 

“I  was  afraid  you  might  have,” 
Jenkins  explained,  “and  wondered 
why  I didn’t  come.  There  was  a 
most  extraordinary  occurrence,  sir. 
Two  men  came  with  a ship  and  said 
they  wanted  you  to  go  to  Mars.” 

“They  are  here,”  said  Webster. 
“Why  didn’t  you  call  me?” 

He  struggled  to  his  feet. 

“I  didn’t  think,  sir,”  said  Jenkins, 
“that  you  would  want  to  be 
bothered.  It  was  so  preposterous.” 

Webster  stiffened,  felt  chill  fear 
gripping  at  his  heart.  Hands  grop- 
ing for  the  edge  of  the  desk,  he  sat 
down  in  the  chair,  sensed  the  walls 
of  the  room  closing  in  about  him, 
a trap  that  would  never  let  him  go. 

“I  had  a rather  strenuous  time, 
sir,”  said  Jenkins.  “They  were  so 
insistent  that  finally,  much  as  I dis- 
liked it,  I resorted  to  force.  But  I 
finally  persuaded  them  you  never 
went  anywhere.” 

THE  END. 


“ WITHOUT  IT, 

HE’D  BE  DEAD 


RIGHT  NOW!’* 


"One  thing  saved  him.  Plasma.  So  if 
he  gets  well,  he  has  you  to  thank  . . . 
Housewife  Jones,  Stevedore  Smith, 
Sophomore  Brown!" 

And  if  he  didn't  get  the  plasma  ...  if 
he  didn't  get  well  . . . would  he  hove  you 
to  blame?  You,  who  mean  to  go  to  the 
Red  Cross  blood  bank,  but  never  quite 
get  around  to  it? 

Don't  give  it  a chance  to  happen.  Go  to 
your  blood  bank  NOW  . . . and  win  a 
soldier's  undying  gratitude — as  well  as 
— perhaps — his  life! 

THE  RED  TiROSS 

NEEDS  Y0UR  blood 

NOW ! 


HUDDLING  PLACE 


149 


Brass  Tacks 


1.  E.  E.  Smith  is  too  busy  on  the 
important  item  of  the  chemistry 
of  unstable  nitrogen  compounds 
to  write. 

2.  Del  Rcy,  a friend  of  R.  M.  Wil- 
liams, wrote  “Though  Dreamers 
Die”  with  Williams'  agreement. 

5.  I’ll  see  what  can  be  done  about 
smaller  type  for  Brass  Tacks. 

Dear  Mr.  Campbell: 

First,  the  Analytical  Lab  report 

for  March  1944. 

1.  “The  Contract,”  by  E.  Mayne 

Hull:  The  cover  story  is  the 

best  in  the  issue.  An  excellent 
story  in  an  excellent  series. 

2.  “The  Rulers,”  by  A.  E.  van 

Vogt : A near  classic  short. 

This  is  an  exception  to  the  rule 
that  the  novelettes  or  seriate 
must  take  the  top  ratings;  van 
Vogt,  one  of  the  best  authors. 
I look  forward  to  his  serial  in 
the  next  issue.  He  has  given 
ASF  some  of  its  best  stories. 


The  only  example  needed  is 
“Sian!” 

3.  “The  Children’s  Hour,”  by 

Lawrence  O’Donnell : Excel- 

lent fantasy.  In  Unknown  it 
probably  would  have  received 
first.  I give  it  the  number  three 
spot  because  of  its  science- 
fiction  interest  and  the  excellent 
writing  it  contained. 

4.  “Circle  of  Confusion,”  by  Wes- 
ley Long:  It  seems  to  be  the 

first  in  a new  series,  yes  ? I like 
this  one  but  please  only  one 
more  if  you  must  have  it.  Down 
to  specific  comment  on  the  story, 
that  “Sandra  Drake”  is  not  even 
a variation  of  a standard  char- 
acter. She  has  been,  it  seems, 
in  too  many  s-f  stories.  How- 
ever, I like  the  idea  of  the  “lens” 
and  that  exchange  of  reversal  of 
polarity  from  odd  to  even  num- 
bered stations. 

5.  “Controller,”  by  Eric  Frank 

Russell : A very  neat  short. 


150 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


These  stories  of  Americans  with 
gadgets  are  good,  and  I do  mean 
good.  More ! 

6.  “Deadline,”  by  Cleve  Cartmill: 
This  deserves  the  last  spot ! I 
usually  like  Cartmill’s  offerings, 
but  this  one,  ugh!  This  seems 
to  me  mediocre  fantasy,  the  kind 
which  would  rank  low  in  Un- 
known also.  This  is  what  I 
fear,  low-ranking  fantasy  in 
ASF.  Please  limit  the  fantasy 
to  one  story  an  issue,  IF  it  must 
be  included.  (Even  if  it’s  not 
fantasy  I don’t  like  it.) 

The  cover  was  excellent.  Tim- 
mins although  poor  on  human  faces 
was  able  to  do  a very  nice  job  with 
the  zilth’s  puss.  The  most  appro- 
priate interior  drawings  were  those 
done  by  Williams  for  “The  Chil- 
dren’s Hour.”  The  honors  (?)  for 
illustrations  in  this  issue  seem 
about  equally  divided  between  Or- 
ban  and  Williams.  Could  it  be  be- 
cause they  are  the  only  artists?  No, 
perish  the  thought ! I make  myself 
satisfied  by  thinking  of  after  the 
war.  Just  think,  Rogers  and  Tim- 
mins on  the  covers,  and  Rogers, 
Schneeman  and  a little  by  the  pres- 
ent valiant  “holders-of-the-line”  in 
the  interior.  Can’t  you  get  Wesso 
or  perhaps  even  Paul  for  anything, 
any  time  ? 

The  article,  “Vanishing  Yankee,” 
was  good  as  the  articles  usually  are. 
Orchids  to  Smith : good  stories  and 
good  articles;  maybe  he  can  draw, 
too?  I like  those  small  articles  that 
you  use  as  fillers,  not  a wrasted  line, 
eh?  Ye  Ed’s  page  was  also  up  to, 
its  par — which  is  of  course,  A,  num- 
ber one,  ipsy  pipsy,  Yankee  Doo- 


dle, for  you  who  listen  to  “Can  You 
Top  This?” 

I’m  happy  to  see  that  Probability 
Zero  has  been  scrapped,  for  at  least 
one  issue.  The  longer  this  item 
remains  absent  during  the  ’con- 
densed war-time  issues  the  better  I 
and  many  other  readers  will  like  it ! 

This  issue  all  in  all  is  of  high 
caliber,  but  what  I most  enjoyed 
was  “In  Times  To  Come.”  When 
first  I saw  it  I felt  wonderful;  my 
disposition  improved  385.856%  ! I 
have  wanted  a serial,  the  next  issue 
bears  the  first  part  of  a serial  by 
A.  E.  van  Vogt,  next  only  in  de- 
sirability to  one  by  E.  E.  Smith  of 
Skylark  and  Lensman  fame;  I 
wanted  a Jameson  story  about  Bul- 
lard, the  magnificent,  and  such  is 
forthcoming.  Who  wouldn’t  feel 
wonderful?  All  I need  to  top  this 
off  would  be  an  announcement  that 
the  Japs  and  the  Germans  had  sur- 
rendered unconditionally,  that’s  all ! 
But,  to  pick  up  a gentle  (?)  hint  that 
was  was  dropped  two  sentences  ago, 
when  will  the  old  master  of  zwilnik 
and  Lensman  fame  write  the  sequel 
to  his  last  epic  ? By  Klono’s  brazen ' 
hoofs,  at  least  supply  the  answer  to 
this  last. 

Among  the  curiousae  of  ASF : 
In  the  February  1944  issue  there 
was  a story  by  Lester  del  Rey  called 
“Though  Dreamers  Die.”  When  I 
read  this  I seemed  to  recall  it  some- 
how. I looked  through  my  “files" 
and  came  up  with  the  following. 
In  the  September  1938  issue  of  ASF 
there  was  a story  by  Robert  Moore 
Williams  called  “Robots  Return.” 
This  story  told  of  the  return  of  the 
descendants  of  the  five  Thoradson 


BRASS  TACKS 


131 


robots  who  had  been  left  on  the 
planet  of  a distant  sun,  in  “Though 
Dreamers  Die.”  They  mentioned  a 
certain  map  which  also  appeared  in 
the  latter  story.  This  is,  of  course, 
more  than  coincidence,  and  if  it  is 
evidence  of  a sort  of  writers’  ex- 
change of  ideas,  well  and  good,  if 
not,  it  still  is  no  skin  off  my  nose, 
as  I enjoy  continuations  and  de- 
velopments of  stories  no  matter 
what  their  nature.  I don’t  think 
Williams  and  del  Rey  are  the  same 
person  as  1)  it  would  serve  no 
purpose  and  2)  the  writing  in  each 
story  seems  different.  Whatever 
the  reason  or  explanation  it  is  worth 
mentioning. 

I have  read  in  several  of  the  let- 
ters that  the  bindings  seem  not  to 
hold  out.  I am  happy  to  state  that 
except  for  the  December  issue, 
which  had  staples  that  tore  the 
pages,  my  copies  of  ASF,  including 
the  November  issue,  have  held  up 
under  extremely  hard  usage. 

Now  I have  a suggestion  which  I 
am  sure  has  been  advanced  by 
others  : if  it  has  been  here  is  a vote 
in  favor  of  it.  The  suggestion  is 
that  Brass  Tacks  be  put  in  the  small 
type  that  ASF  used  to  use  for  it, 
that  many  other  S-F  magazines  use 
for  their  letter  columns,  and  that  you 
are  now  using  for  “In  Times  To 
Come”  and  “The  Analytical  Labo- 
ratory.” It  really  prints  very 
nicely.  It  is  dark  and  just  as  legible 


* ★ * * 


as  the  printing  for  the  rest  of  the 
magazine.  You  remarked  that  the 
presses  that  are  now  used  for  ASF 
print  very  clearly,  and  now  I see 
that  this  is  so.  This  type,  which 
usually  seems  broken  and  light,  is 
very  clear,  so,  as  I have  said  before, 
how  about  it  ? Why  not  put  it  up 
to  a vote,  huh  ? — M,  Eneman,  414 
West  44th  Street,  New  York  18, 
New  York. 

Dear  Mr.  Campbell: 

1.  “The  Changeling" — swell  new 
idea,  very  excellently  handled. 

2.  “Lobby" — superb  presentation 
of  only  means  to  a lasting  peace 
in  the  ending  episode. 

3.  “The  Long  Way” — I like  the 
Venus  Equilateral  series. 

4.  The  two  articles  are  very  inter- 
esting and  informative. 

5.  “The  Bureaucrat” — more  than 
one  wav  of  skinning  a cat,  eh? 

6.  “Invariant”  f These  two  just 

j about  tie;  both 

7.  “Sanity” — good  but  not  ex- 

ceptional. 

Editoral  informative  as  usual, 
and  well  presented.  GOOD  cover, 
a nice  blending  of  colors  without 
being  blatant.  Interior  pics  probably 
as  good  as  possible  considering 
small  space  available  for  them. — 
E.  Everett  Evans,  25  Popular 
Street,  Battle  Creek,  Michigan. 


* ★ * ★ 


152 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Book  R eview 


“ROCKETS:  A Prelude  to  Space 
Travel,”  by  Willy  Ley.  The 
Viking  Press,  New  York  City. 
$3.00 

“Run,  do  not  walk — ” No,  that 
won’t  do.  Every  time  I get  one  of 
Willy  Ley’s  books  to  review  I 
mess  around  for  thirty  minutes  try- 
ing to  find  synonyms  for  super- 
colossal.  What  I am  trying  to  say, 
chum,  is  this:  If  you  like  science- 
fiction,  if  you  really  believe  that 
there  will  be  a next  year  after  this 
one,  if  you  think  the  spacesuit  will 
eventually  replace  the  zoot  suit,  this 
is  for  you,  this  is  your  dish,  this  is 
a book  you  have  been  waiting  for. 

If  you  have  friends  and  relatives 
who  sneer  at  you  for  reading  those 
cheap  magazines  with  the  lurid 
covers  with  the  Buck  Rogers  ships, 
keep  this  book  around  the  house  for 
emergencies.  Dare  them  to  read  it. 
Force  them  to  read  it.  This  book 
is  a clear,  factual  account,  with 
strict  attention  to  the  scientific 
method  and  in  accordance  with  the 
• best,  conservative,  contemporary 
engineering  practice,  of  hoiv  we 
will  conquer  space,  reach  the  far 


side  of  the  moon,  walk  the  dead  sea 
bottoms  of  Barsoom! 

It  is  written  by  a mechanical  en- 
gineer who  spent  several  years  in 
research  and  experimentation  in 
reaction  engines  (rockets) ; it  is 
written  so  that  other  engineers  may 
follow'  each  line  of  reasoning  and 
judge  for  themselves  the  validity 
of  the  conclusions.  But  such  is 
Willy  Ley’s  skill  in  handling  the 
English  language  that  “Rockets” 
is  one  of  that  exceedingly  rare  sort 
of  books,  a work  which  is  simul- 
taneously a rigorous  engineering 
treatise  and  a gripping,  lucid  popu- 
lar account  of  a thoroughly  roman- 
tic subject — the  new  adventure,  the 
highroad  to  the  stars! 

Ley  shines  brightest  in  his  ability 
to  state  in  words,  clear  words,  con- 
cepts which  ' are  ordinarily  stated 
only  in  mathematical  formulae. 
(Lin  Yutang  is  another  of  the  very 
few  who  can  express  abstruse  ideas 
in  pellucid  English;  note  that  he, 
like  Ley,  was  not  born  to  the 
tongue.  Is  it  possible  that  we  na- 
tive-born never  really  learn  to  speak 
our  own  language?)  In  the  few 
cases  where  the  mathematics  and 


BOOK  REVIEW 


153 


thfc  engineering  data  get  in  the 
way  of  the  story,  necessary  tables, 
formulae,  and  derivations  are  in- 
cluded in  an  appendix.  You  may 
take  them  or  leave  them  alone ; they 
are  not  necessary  to  the  exposition. 

Ley’s  basic  thesis  may  be  stated 
thusly:  All  of  the  basic  research 
necessary  to  permit  us  to  reach  the 
Moon  and  the  nearer  planets  by 
means  of  passenger-carrying  rocket 
ships  has  already  been  told.  What 
remains  is  routine  development 
work,  expensive  and  tedious,  but 
routine  and  quite  certain.  It  is  the 
sort  of  job  that  a major  American 
corporation  would  assign  an  engin- 
eering team  to,  an  allotment  of 
money,  shop  and  laboratory  facili- 
ties, then  await  results  with  a quiet 
assurance  that  the  job  would  be 
done  in — let’s  say  three  to  five 
years.  We  could  even  guess  at  the 
make-up  of  the  team.  Head  it  up 
with  a mechanical  engineer,  include 
a metallurgist,  a chemical  engineer, 
an  explosives  chemist,  an  electrical 
engineer,  a radio  engineer  who  has 
specialized  in  electronic  control 
systems,  a good  structures  man, 
civil  or  aeronautical,  add  a mathe- 
matician skilled  in  ballistics.  Pro- 
vide collaboration  and  advice  from 
the  rest  of  the  engineering  staff. 
Add  junior  engineers  when  needed. 
Put  up  two  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars as  a starter  and  count  on  a 
deficiency  allotment  for  the  first — 
unmanned — Moon  rocket. 

General  Electric  could  start  the 
day  the  war  is  over.  General 
Motors  could  make  a swell  try  at 
beating  them  to  the  finish.  If  the 
Russians  did  not  nose  out  both  of 

154 


them.  How?  Because  the  basic 
work  is  all  done.  We  know  the 
kind  of  engine,  we  have  the  fuel, 
we  have  the  necessary  alloys,  we 
know  all  the  steps;  what  remains 
is  routine  development  and  test.  It 
would  not  even  need  the  help  of 
the  great  names  in  rocket  research 
— Goddard,  Ley,  Pendray,  Oberth, 
Parsons,  et  cetera.  Any  such  team 
of  engineers  could  do  it,  or  should 
go  back  to  digging  ditches. 

Furthermore,  it  would  be  done 
and  promptly  if  a major  corpora- 
tion were  convinced  that  it  would 
pay  off  in  dividends. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  parts 
of  the  book  is  concerned  with  a dis- 
cussion of  the  possible  economic 
benefits  of  space  travel.  Ley  gives 
convincing  reasons  for  believing 
that  space  travel  will  pay  dividends 
far  beyond  the  cost  of  the  develop- 
ment. While  what  he  surmises  is 
almost  certainly  true,  it  is  pleasant 
to  conjecture  that  the  real  major 
rewards  of  space  travel  are  as  yet 
unguessed,  just  as  Columbus  did 
not  dream  of  our  great  new  con- 
tinent when  he  sailed  west  for 
Cathay.  Why  not?  It  has  been  so 
with  every  great  new  advance ; why 
not  with  space  travel?  One  may 
venture  to  guess  that  the  most  ro- 
mantic stories  of  planetary  travel 
ever  published  in  Astounding  may 
prove  to  be  stumbling,  blind,  con- 
servative. 

But  Ley  does  show  that  the  im- 
mediate results  should  show  a 
profit. 

The  book  is  arranged  chrono- 
logically. The  first  part  takes  up 
the  history  of  the  great  dream.  The 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


literature,  fantastic  and  otherwise, 
is  described.  Attention  is  given  to 
early  gropings,  both  in  theory  and 
experimentation.  ' A detailed  ac- 
count is  made  of  the  German 
Rocket  Society,  in  which  Ley  par- 
ticipated, during  its  great  days  and 
on  up  until  its  tragic  suffocation  at 
the  hands  of  the  Nazis.  Much  of 
this  is  familiar  to  readers  of  As- 
tounding. 

The  last  half  of  the  book  dis- 
cusses the  matter  we  are  really  in- 
terested in : How  to  build  spaceships 
and  how  to  make  them  fly.  The 
care  and  feeding  of  astronauts. 
What  to  do  about  meteors.  How  to 
set  a course  that  will  get  you  to 
Venus  and  back.  How  to  make  an 
approach  for  a landing.  How  much 
fuel,  what  kind,  and  why. 

(The  following  note  is  intended 
only  for  science-fiction  writers;  the 
cash  customers  are  requested  not  to 
read  it.  Better  get  this  book  and 
bone  up.  A lot  of  you  have  been 
getting  away  with  faulty  physics 
and  ridiculous  contradictions  simply 
because  most  of  your  readers  could 
not  check  up  on  you  when  it  came 
to  orbits,  speeds,  length  of  voyage, 
space  maneuvering,  et  cetera.  Willy 
Ley  has  changed  all  that  and  de- 
serves a good  sharp  note  from  the 
union.  But  from  now  on  you  had 
better  watch  it — or  you  can  expect 
to  appear  in  some  pretty  embarrass- 
ing situation  in  Brass  Tacks.  Better 
buy  a slip  stick,  too.  It  appears 
that  at  last  forty  percent  of  the 
readers  use  them.) 

Despite  the  fact  that  '‘Rockets” 
covers  the  history  and  theory  and 
immediate  future  of  space  travel  in 


an  almost  encyclopedic  fashion  it 
is  only  a little  longer  than  an  or- 
dinary whodunit,  not  as  long  as  a 
Doc  Smith  serial.  It  is  profusely 
illustrated  and  is  a handsome  vol- 
ume. But  the  best  thing  about  it  is 
not  that  it  is  an  enjoyable  book;  it 
is  the  conviction  it  gives  that  some 
of  you  who  are  now  reading  these 
words  will,  before  you  have  time  to 
become  bald,  walk  the  far  side  of 
the  Moon,  gazing  on  peaks  never 
seen  through  a ’scope,  your  feet 
scuffing  the  soft  pumice  of  Luna. 

Somewhere  near  your  elbow 
there  will  be  another  figure,  dressed 
like  yourself  in  a G.E.  pressure  suit 
with  plexiglas  helmet  and  oxygen 
tank. 

I hope  I’m  in  that  suit. 

— Robert  A.  Heinlein. 


THE  END. 


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NAME 

ADDRESS  

CITY STATE 

BOOK  REVIEW 


135 


They  were  queer  little  brutes,  distinguished, 
by  an  uncanny  ability  to  turn  anything— even 


egg  beaters  and  fountain  pens! — into  deadly 


Utility 

W 


by  DAVID  ANDERSON 

Illustrated  by  Williams 

The  Cassiopeia  had  a full  crew  life.  I helped  give  him  one  once 
that  slept  aboard  the  night  before  on  Bonsby  when  things  got  so  bad 
we  left  for  Merans.  That  is,  it  was  that  the  crew  ganged  up  and  car- 
full  except  for  McCord,  Hydro-  ried  him  outside  the  shed  in  the 
phobia  McCord,  and  nobody  was  middle  of  a Bonsby  winter.  We 
very  sorry  about  that.  Three  had  to  cut  through  three  feet  of  ice 
months  cooped  up  in  the  small  trad-  and  it  darned  near  killed  him,  but 
ing  ship  with  McCord  would  be  McCord  got  a bath.  That  was  five 
plenty  long.  We  knew.  We  had  years  ago,  of  course, 
shipped  with  him  before.  Nobody  I ever  met  could  recall 

Rumors  are  absolutely  false  when  seeing  him  ever  take  a drink  of 
they  say  that  Hydrophobia  Me-  water,  but  there  were  witnesses  to 
Cord  had  never  had  a bath  in  his  that  one  bath.  McCord  was  aller- 


156 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


gic  to  water  both  externally  and  in- 
ternally. 

In  desperation  and  in  the  middle 
of  a huge  drunk  McCord  had  once 
gone  to  some  quack  psychologist 
who  certified  for  ten  dollars  that 
McCord  had  a psychosis  which 
made  even  the  near  presence  of 
water  an  exquisite  torture  to  Mc- 
Cord’s sensitive  nerves. 

After  his  bargain-counter  psycho- 
analysis, whenever  anybody  brought 
the  subject  up,  McCord  would  get 
wells  of  tears  in  his  big,  baby-blue 
eyes  and  wail,  “It’s  my  psychosis, 
fellows,  I can’t  help  it.  Don’t  you 
see  it?” 

On  our  previous  trip  to  Merans 
Captain  Wilkins  had  said,  “It  isn’t 
the  optic  nerve  that  your  psychosis 
bothers.” 

Which  about  summed  it  up  for  all 
of  us. 

The  Cassiopeia  was  a rumbling 
little  trading  ship  built  without 
much  concern  for  the  crew  or  any 
passengers  which  might  be  fool 
enough  to  want  a cheap  ride,  but 
she  was  built  like  a bank  vault  and 
padded  with  goose  down  in  the 
cargo  holds  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Jewelworlds  which  were  the  chief 
item  of  cargo  from  Merans  to' 
Earth. 

On  the  morning  of  this  particular 
take-off  Captain  Wilkins  was  in  the 
navigator’s  cabin  giving  us  the  once 
over  and  sounding  out  the  new  men 
aboard.  Most  of  us  had  shipped 
with  him  before,  more  times  than 
we  cared  to  remember — and  always 
with  Hydrophobia  McCord  aboard. 

Captain  Wilkins  opened  the 
Spaceman’s  Bible  that  lay  in  front 


of  him,  a neat  little  pamphlet  of 
some  twenty-eight  hundred  pages 
telling  what  you  can  do  and  what 
you  can’t  do  on  which  planet  and 
why. 

“Trading  on  Merans  with  the 
Diomedes  is  a ticklish  proposition,” 
the  captain  said  slowly  and  he 
thumbed  through  the  Bible.  “If 
there’s  a more  ornery,  cantankerous 
race  of  misbegotten  protoplasm  on 
any  planet  than  inhabits  Merans  I 
have  yet  to  see  it.” 

He  continued  to  thumb  through 
the  volume  in  exasperation  that  was 
slowly  turning  his  face  red  and 
changing  its  shape  into  a thunder- 
ous scowl. 

“Who’s  been — ?” 

I knew  what  was  coming  next.  I 
had  seen  the  same  performance  so 
many  times  before  that  I knew  ex- 
actly how  long  he  would  thumb  be- 
fore he  reached  for  his  pocket- 
book. 

He  grumbled  at  the  bottom  of  his 
throat.  “Forgot.  I carry  this  thing 
in  my  pocket  so  I can  refer  to  it.” 
He  extracted  the  sheet  born  from 
the  Bible. 

“Section  118-B,  Paragraph  32  of 
the  Interstellar  Regulations  Gov- 
erning the  Relationship  Between 
Sovereign  Bodies  of  the  Various 
Inhabited  Worlds  and  Regulations 
Concerning  Property  Rights 
Thereof.  ‘No  trading  body,  cor- 
poration, company,  or  individual 
shall  sell,  transfer,  exchange,  do- 
nate or  in  any  other  manner  cause 
to  be  placed  in  the  custody  or  use 
of  belligerent  groups,  races,  indi- 
viduals, or  parties  any  weapon,  tool, 


UTILITY 


157 


mechanism,  or  device  which  may  be 
used  in  warfare,  conflict,  or  bellig- 
erent action  of  any  nature.’ 

"That  means  that  you  can’t  even 
trade  a club,  stick,  rod,  or  . . . 
There  / go ! . . . you  can’t  trade 
a simple  baseball  bat  to  the  Diome- 
des  for  their  Jewehvorlds  because  if 
you  do  they’ll  go  out  and  start  club- 
bing the  Arthoids. 

“We  tried  to  get  the  Traders’ 
Council  to  declare  Merans  outside 
the  intent  of  this  regulation  but 
they’ve  turned  us  down  a dozen 
times  and  so  I repeat  for  the  benefit 
of  the  new  members  of  the  crew 
that  if  we  swap  the  Diomedes  any- 
thing they  can  use  on  the  Arthoids 
we  are  cooked.” 

I looked  up  quickly.  He  sounded 
more  serious  than  before.  “You 
mean  that  last — ?”  I started  to  in- 
terrupt. 

Captain  Wilkins  glowered.  “I 
mean  that  last  trip  when  we  thought 
we  had  something  foolproof.  We 
traded  eggbeaters,  a whole  cargo- 
hold  full  of  them,  for  Jewelworlds. 
We  thought  we  could  find  nothing 
more  harmless  in  the  world  than  an 
eggbeater  to  use  for  barter.  Well, 
as  you  know,  the  common  egg- 
beater  uses  a vibratory  principle, 
coupled  with  molecular  air  infusion. 
The  Diomedes  are  little  gadget  lov- 
ers and  they  very  ingeniously 
hooked  up  twenty  or  thirty  eggbeat- 
ers in  parallel  and  proceeded  to 
whip  the  Arthoids  into  a froth. 

“There  was  hell  to  pay  when  the 
news  of  it  leaked  out  to  the  Coun- 
cil. They  threatened  to  cancel  the 
license  of  Barter,  Inc.  Timothy 
Thorgersen,  president  of  our  out- 


fit— in  case  any  of  you  are  so  ig- 
norant as  not  to  know — threatened 
to  take  the  Cassiopeia  crew  apart 
molecule  by  molecule.  He  forbade 
us  ever  to  trade  on  Merans  again — 
and  six  days  later  he  ordered  us 
back.” 

“Why  the  change?”  asked  Hap 
Paulson,  our  navigator.  “I  don’t 
get  it.” 

“We  can  thank  Hydrophobia  Mc- 
Cord— bless  his  smelly  soul.  He 
got  the  wonderful  brainstorm  that 
the  one  thing  that  the  Diomedes 
could  not  turn  into  a weapon  is  the 
ordinary  writing  pen.  So  here  we 
are  with  a hold  bulging  full  of  pens 
to  trade  to  these  little  catastrophes 
of  procreation.” 

“Why  can’t  we  just  go  now — ■ 
and  forget  McCord?”  It  was 
Dune  Edwards,  the  chief  engineer. 
He  looked  around  hopefully  and 
got  a feeble  nod  from  every  one  of 
the  rest  of  the  crew.  Captain  Wil- 
kins merely  looked  at  him  without 
answrer.  No  trading  party  to 
Merans  had  gone  without  McCord 
since  the  planet  had  first  been  dis- 
covered by  him  and  Thorgersen 
eight  years  ago. 

The  captain  shut  the  Bible  and 
raised  his  arm  to  put  the  book  in 
the  wall  locker.  His  arm  halted  in 
midair  and  he  slowly  turned  around. 
His  nose  twitched.  He  looked  sus- 
piciously at  each  of  the  crew.  But 
every  man  was  looking  askance  at 
his  neighbor. 

Captain  Wilkins  saw  nothing  and 
turned  again  to  put  the  book  away. 
Then  he  whirled  and  sniffed  vio- 
lently. 

“What  in — ?”  he  began. 


158 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


I was  getting  it  plenty  strong.  It 
didn’t  seem  to  come  from  anywhere 
in  particular,  but  the  condensed, 
filtered,  and  distilled  essence  of 
orchids  was  suddenly  upon  the  air 
so  thickly  that  it  swirled  visibly 
when  you  turned  your  head. 

There  was  the  scent  of  roses 
there,  too,  as  if  a ton  of  them  had 
been  pulped  and  the  juice  was 
slowly  distilling  into  the  air.  Then 
with  an  overpowering  rush  there 
seemed  to  be  a maelstrom  of  odor — 
every  flower  in  the  botanical  cata- 
logues seemed  to  be  there,  from 
floating  moss  to  snapdragons. 

We  were  all  thinking  the  same 
thing:  Someone,  in  anticipation  of 
McCord’s  arrival,  had  broken  a vial 
of  dime-store  perfume. 

“All  right,  all  right !’’  Captain 
Wilkins  thundered.  “Who  brought 
it  aboard?” 

“I  did.  Isn’t  it  wonderful,  fel- 
lows? My  psychosis  won’t  bother 
you  now.” 

“McCord !" 

We  all  whirled  to  face  the  door 
as  Hydrophobia  McCord  oozed  in. 
“Isn’t  it  wonderful?”  he  repeated. 
His  baby-blue  eyes  were  glowing 
and  his  nostrils  oscillated  apprecia- 
tively in  the  scented  atmosphere. 

“No!”  roared  Captain  Wilkins. 
“In  the  name  of  all  that’s  smelly 
what  did  you  spill  on  you?” 

“Oh,  nothing,”  said  McCord  in- 
nocently. “It’s  one  of  these  new- 
fangled midget  ologenerators. 
See?”  He  held  up  a tiny  instru- 
ment with  a dial  face  and  a couple 
of  switches  on  it. 

“It’s  small  enough  to  go  in  your 
pocket  and  you  can  adjust  to  any 


strength  or  any  scent  you  like. 
I’ve  got  it  on  full  on  all  of  them 
now.  Thought  you’d  like  it  better 
that  way.  But  I can  give  you  any- 
thing you  want.  There’s  lilacs  for 
example.” 

Instantly,  the  overpowering 
scent  of  all  the  flowers  in  the  books 
disappeared  and  was  replaced  by  the 
gentle,  springy  scent  of  lilacs.  Even 
Captain  Wilkins  was  mollified.  To 
tell  the  truth,  it  wasn’t  half  bad 
compared  to  what  we  had  expected 
with  McCord’s  appearance. 

“Leave  it  there,”  Captain  Wil- 
kins grumbled.  “And  turn  it  down. 
Keep  it  just  high  enough  to — ” He 
jerked  his  head  meaningly. 

McCord  wasn’t  a bad  sort  if  you 
could  endure  the  sight  of  his  great, 


UTILITY 


tet 


bulbous  form  occupying  the  full 
width  of  a catwalk  as  he  ambled 
along  as  if  in  a heavy  sea  like  some 
great  ship  designed  by  a drunken 
naval  architect.  And  if  you  didn’t 
mind  his  psychosis — 

A special  cargo  of  ninety  proof 
was  aboard  for  McCord's  own  use. 
He  swore  to  all  creation  that  his 
psychosis  wouldn’t  permit  hint  to 
partake  of  any  other  liquid.  But 
nobody  cared  particularly  about 
that.  It  meant  McCord  would  be  in 
his  bunk  during  most  of  the  voyage, 
completely  at  the  mercy  of  his 
psychosis. 

In  two  respects,  this  voyage  was 
like  no  other  that  we’d  made  with 
Captain  Wilkins.  For  the  first  time 
we  had  an  atmosphere  of  lilacs  in- 
stead of  decayed  cabbage,  and  we 
knew  it  would  be  our  last  trip  after 
the  fabulous  Jewelworlds  of  the 
Diomedes  and  the  Arthoids  unless 
McCord’s  hunch  was  right  and  the 
cargo  of  pens  wrotild  prove  to  be  a 
harmless  medium  of  exchange  with 
the  creatures. 

The  inhabitants  of  Merans  all 
seem  to  belong  to  the  same  genus 
but  there  are  a dozen  different  spe- 
cies. Only  the  two,  the  Diomedes 
and  the  Arthoids,  produce  the  fa- 
mous Jewelworlds.  The  products 
of  the  Diomedes  are  far  superior  to 
tire  others  which  produce  consider- 
able distortion. 

Barter,  Inc.,  had  made  a fortune 
out  of  the  Jewelworlds  by  holding 
them  up  to  robbery  prices.  It’s  true 
the  things  are  rare  enough  and  most 
people  have  never  even  seen  one. 
They  are  simply  crystal-clear 

160 


spheres  anywhere  from  a half  inch 
to  eight  inches  in  diameter.  They 
have  a property  which  causes  them 
to  respond  to  the  minute  waves  of 
the  human  brain  and  will  recreate  a 
picture  of  any  imagined  scene  in  the 
mind  of  a person  gazing  into  the 
sphere. 

A couple  of  thousand  treatises 
have  been  written  on  the  Jewel- 
worlds,  but  none  has  yet  been  able 
to  figure  out  how  they  work.  It 
has  been  called  everything  from 
self-hypnosis  to  a complicated 
mechanical  and  electrical  receiver 
and  projector  for  mental  radia- 
tions. No  one  knows  for  sure. 

The  creatures  of  Merans  make 
them  partly  out  of  raw  materials 
found  on  the  planet  and,  like  oys- 
ters making  pearls,  they  use  secre- 
tions of  their  own  bodies  in  fash- 
ioning the  spheres.  Unlike  oysters 
and  pearls,  the  Jewelworlds  are 
made  entirely  outside  the  bodies  of 
the  creatures.  They  fashion  them 
with  their  own  furry  paws. 

The  reason  Hydrophobia  Mc- 
Cord is  so  invaluable  to  any  trading 
party  is  that  he  was  the  first  human 
being  to  make  contact  with  the 
Diomedes  and  Arthoids.  Though 
the  two  species  are  mortal  enemies, 
they  koth  act  as  if  McCord  is  their 
god. 

The  creatures  are  gadget  ma- 
niacs. It’s  queer,  but  they  do  not 
have  an  intricate  mechanical  cul- 
ture of  their  own.  All  they  make 
are  the  Jewelworlds.  But  in  the 
presence  of  any  gadget  from  Earth 
or  elsewhere  they  act  completely  off 
their  bases. 

In  the  matter  of  utility,  they  have 
ASTOUXDIXCi  SCIEXCE-FICTION 


one-track  minds.  No  matter  what 
the  gadget,  they  try  to  make  a 
weapon  out  of  it.  It  seems  as  if 
that’s  the  only  use  they  can  con- 
ceive for  anything  mechanical. 
They  tear  into  the  most  complicated 
televisor  and  put  it  back  together 
again  so  that  it  will  practically  lay 
eggs — or  spray  a death  ray.  Gad- 
gets are  like  drink  to  them. 

McCord  may  be  partly  responsi- 
ble for  this.  He  and  Timothy 
Thorgersen  were  the  first  ones  to 
land  on  Merans  and  McCord  dis- 
covered the  two  species  making 
Jewelworlds.  He  finagled  one  out 
of  them  in  exchange  for  a pocket 
visor.  They  practically  worshiped 
him  for  what  they  seemed  to  think 
was  an  exchange  that  was  robbery 
— of  McCord. 

I .suppose  you  could  build  up 
quite  a thesis  on  human  nature  that 
the  two  men,  McCord  and  Thorger- 
sen, were  on  Merans  simultaneously 
and  had  exactly  the  same  oppor- 
tunity to  exploit  the  planet.  One 
of  them  snowballed  that  beginning 
into  the  greatest  trading  company 
operating  out  of  the  Solar  System. 
The  other  one  remained  a drunken 
bum. 

Even  during  the  following  years 
when  McCord  gave  up  his  erratic 
and  ill-managed  attempts  to  do  his 
own  trading  around  the  systems  and 
became  merely  a cheaply  paid  nego- 
tiator for  Barter,  Inc.,  and  other 
companies,  he  never  seemed  to  real- 
ize his  real  worth  in  dealing  with 
the  creatures  of  Merans.  Or 
rather,  he  seemed  afraid  they  would 
decide  to  get  along  without  him  and 

UTILITY 


he  wouldn’t  get  a chance  to  go  back 
to  Merans. 

No  one  knew  quite  what  attitude 
to  take  towards  McCord.  It  was 
usually  a combination  of  disgust 
and  pity,  with  disgust  the  larger 
portion. 

The  Cassiopeia,  sulfused  with  the 
fumes  of  lilac  blossoms,  rose  into 
the  skies  for  its  three  months’  jour- 
ney which  might  well  be  the  last 
trip  to  Merans  if  we  slipped  and 
pulled  a boner  like  we  did  on  the 
eggbeater  trade. 

Hydrophobia  McCord  seemed  op- 
timistic, however,  that  the  pens 
would  prove  to  be  the  solution  to 
all  the  trading  troubles  on  Merans. 
I wasn’t  so  sure.  There  was  noth- 
ing ' complicated  about  the  pens. 
They  were  the  ordinary  type  of 
supersonic  points  designed  to  pro- 
duce a permanent  record  on  Per- 
mosize  paper,  but  I felt  kind  of 
leery  of  turning  over  to  the  Dio- 
medes  even  such  a simple  gadget  as 
the  tiny  supersonic  generator  con- 
tained in  the  barrels  of  the  pens. 

But  there  was  no  use  worrying. 
We  were  on  our  way. 

McCord  himself  seemed  bent  on 
making  it  a memorable  journey. 
Instead  of  retiring  to  his  cabin  with 
a case  of  the  ninety  proof,  he 
seemed  to  refrain  entirely  from 
liquid  nourishment  and  wandered 
about  the  ship  in  jovial  tempera- 
ment. 

You  could  detect  him  coming  two 
levels  away  by  the  increase  in  lilac 
scent  pervading  the  air. 

The  second  day  out,  Dune  Ed- 
wards down  in  his  chief  engineer’s 

161 


repair  shop  detected  the  now  fa- 
miliar, almost  overpowering  scent. 
He  looked  up  from  his  bench  where 
he  was  examining  a burned-out 
meter  as  McCord  waddled  in. 

“Hello,  chief,”  McCord  said  with 
a friendly  grin.  “Mind  if  I come 
in?” 

Dune  Edwards’  response  was  a 
low  growl  in  the  lower  regions  of 
his  throat.  .But  McCord  was  used 
to  such  response  and  acted  as  if 
he’d  been  welcomed  like  a long-lost 
uncle  with  a fortune  to  share. 

His  bulk  sidled  up  to  the  chief. 

Edwards  stood  it  as  long  as  he 
could.  “Will  you  please  turn  that 
thing  down  a little?  What  are  you 
trying  to  do?  Anaesthetize  me?” 

“Sure,  sorry.” 

I happened  to  be  over  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  shop  doing  a grease 
monkey’s  job  on  a converter  cham- 
ber that  had  blown  out  just  after 
take-off.  None  of  us  had  been  able 
to  figure  out  what  caused  it  to  blow 

102 


and  Dune  Edwards  was  in  a boiling 
stew  over  it. 

He  finally  turned  to  McCord  in 
suppressed  rage  and  said  in  tem- 
pered tones,  “Will  you  kindly  state 
your  business  as  quickly  as  possible, 
Mr.  McCord,  and  then  scram?” 

“Oh,  yeah,  sure — ” McCord 
seemed  dismayed  by  Edwards’ 
abrupt  manner.  “I  just  wanted  to 
ask  you  a little  favor.  I would  like 
to  use  a bench  and  some  of  the  tools 
in  the  shop  during  the  trip.  There’s 
a little  gadget  I want  to  work  on.” 

"All  during  the  trip  ?” 

“Most  of  the  trip.” 

“Right  here  in  this  room?” 

“Why,  yes.” 

“I'm  sorry,  McCord,  but  I am 
charged  with  maintaining  the  me- 
chanical operation  of  this  ship  and 
this  repair  shop  is  private  domain 
into  which  no  other  members  of  the 
crew  are  allowed  except  by  special 
permission  of  Captain  Wilkins.” 
Edwards’  voice  was  so  formal  and 
level  with  fury  that  it  hurt. 

But  McCord’s  face  beamed. 
“Oh,  I’m  sure  it  will  be  all  right 
w'ith  Cap.  I’ll  go  and  see  him  and 
be  right  back.” 

Hydrophobia  McCord  waddled 
out  again  and  up  the  companion- 
way.  Dune  Edwards  turned  to  me 
and  screwed  up  his  face  in  a wink. 
“Wait  till  that  walking  flower  pot 
gets  to  the  captain.  He’ll  get  told 
off  plenty.” 

Then  his  face  sobered  and  he 
looked  worried.  “But  just  in 
case — ” 

He  went  to  the  interphone  and 
call  the  captain. 

Captain  Wilkins  wasn’t  in  his 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


quarters.  In  growing  fear  and 
anxiety,  Edwards  called  all  over  the 
ship.  Finally  he  connected  with 
the  captain  in  the  hold  and  told 
him  what  McCord  wanted. 

“If  you  so  much  as  dream  of  let- 
ting that  combination  flower  pot 
and  garbage  can  on  wheels  come 
into  this  shop,  I resign !” 

“McCord  has  already  seen  me 
and  I have  told  him  it  was  none  of 
my  business,”  said  Captain  Wil- 
kins, “but  since  that’s  the  way  you 
feel  about  it  I order  you  to  allow 
McCord  the  use  of  any  facilities  he 
may  require  to  produce  the  gadget 
he  contemplates.  Give  him  the  run 
of  the  shop.” 

Edwards'  normally  florid  face 
went  through  shades  of  the  spec- 
trum like  an  auroral  display  and  he 
hung  up  without  another  word. 

He  turned  on  me.  “You  heard? 
I should  let  that  olfactory  calamity 
work  in  here  with  me?  I quit!” 

Edwards,  of  course,  didn’t  quit. 
He  sulked  in  the  corridors  and  in 
the  game  room  for  half  a day  and 
finally  came  back,  glaring  as  he 
entered  the  doorway  and  saw  the 
mountainous  back  of  McCord 
hunched  over  a workbench. 

Nobody  during  the  entire  three 
months  saw  McCord  so  much  as 
touch  a drop  of  liquid  to  his  lips. 
How  he  got  along  without  it,  I 
don’t  know.  He  must  have  sneaked 
whiskey  in  minute  quantities  at 
night,  but  he  never  took  enough  to 
affect  his  locomotion.  He  slaved 
over  his  mysterious  gadget  in  the 
repair  shop  and  told  no  one  what 
it  was. 


He  had  told  Captain  Wilkins 
that  it  wras  a device  for  insuring 
permanent  trading  possibilities  with 
the  Diomedes  and  Arthoids.  That 
was  enough  for  the  captain  to  issue 
his  orders  to  Edwards. 

The  last  few  days  of  the  voyage 
McCord  worked  in  a frenzy  to 
finish.  The  day  before  we  landed 
it  was  completed,  so  he  said. 

There  was  an  apprehension 
among  the  crew,  unspoken  but  defi- 
nite. Without  being  a trader  it’s 
hard  to  understand  the  peculiar 
pride  the  members  of  this  queer 
and  sometimes  grotesque  profession 
take  in  their  work.  There’s  a pride 
in  the  accomplishment  of  meeting 
members  of  seemingly  incompre- 
hensible races  and  successfully  put- 
ting over  a barter  deal. 

If  we  failed  to  continue  the  con- 
tacts on  Merans,  we’d  be  blacklisted 
with  every  trading  company  in  the 
business. 

The  peculiar,  gadgety  psychology 
of  the  Diomedes  and  Arthoids  com- 
bined with  the  natural  cantanker- 
ous nature  of  the  creatures  made 
Merans  probably  the  most  difficult 
trading  area  in  existence. 

No  one  ever  has  and  probably 
never  will  understand  what  makes 
the  little  devils  want  to  fight  with 
every  other  type  of  life  on  their 
planet.  Maybe  it’s  just  their  gadgety 
nature  that  makes  them  turn  every 
device  that’s  traded  to  them  into  a 
weapon,  but  certainly  they  have  a 
one-track  idea  of  utility. 

All  we  knew  was  that  we  were 
there  to  trade  for  Jewelworlds  and 
it  was  against  the  law  to  trade 


UTILITY 


163 


weapons  or  interfere  in  local  war- 
fare, . 

Merans  is  about  as  desolate  a 
world  as  has  been  encountered  with 
life  on  it.  Plant  forms  are  prac- 
tically nonexistent.  The  surface  of 
the  planet  is  rugged,  but  no  moun- 
tains worthy  of  the  name  are  there. 
There  are  low  hills  and  cliffs  big 
enough  to  contain  caves  in  which 
the  inhabitants  live.  And  there 
are  pools  of  water  large  enough  for 
them  to  swim  in,  which  is  what  they 
do  about  half  the  time. 

The  air  is  cold  and  light,  but  it  is 
possible  to  go  without  spacesuits 
which  makes  trading  a lot  easier 
because  all  communication  is  by 
sign  language.  The  creatures  of 
Merans  appeared  to  be  totally 
voiceless  and  if  they  communicated 
with  each  other  nothing  was  known 
of  their  methods. 

Captain  Wilkins  set  the  Cassio- 
peia down  on  a barren  plain  be- 
tween two  mesas  and  beside  a pool 
of  water  where  the  Diomedes  were 
likely  to  be  swimming. 

The  final  jar  as  she  settled  on  the 
stern  plates  was  a welcome  sound 
to  us  all.  After  three  months  in 
concentrated  lilac  soup  we  were  all 
partially  intoxicated  or  asphyxiated 
by  it. 

Dune  Edwards  was  the  first  out. 
He  leaped  like  a kid  and  beat  his 
hands  on  his  chest.  “Air!  Pure, 
fresh  air!”  he  exclaimed. 

It  was  an  achfor  McCord’s  bene- 
Tit,  but  the  latter  wasn't  even  look- 
ing. He  left  the  hatch  slowly  with 
a purposeful  look  on  his  face  and 
marched  straight  across  the  plain 
towards  the  pool.  Captain  Wilkins 

164 


nodded  with  a tense,  satisfied  look 
on  his  face.  “Better  break  out  the 
pens,  boys.  McCord’s  on  his  way 
to  open  negotiations.” 

With  full  knowledge  of  the  cru- 
cial nature  of  the  moment,  we  began 
hauling  out  the  cases  of  writing 
pens  to  swap  for  Jewelworlds.  The 
next  few  hours  would  tell  us  if  this 
would  be  our  last  trip  to  Merans. 

We  had  about  a couple  of  dozen 
cases  unloaded  when  Captain  Wil- 
kins pushed  back  his  cap  and  shaded 
his  eyes  with  his  hands.  “What  in 
the  name  of  seven  constellations  is 
that  fool  up  to,  now?” 

We  all  looked  in  the  direction  of 
McCord.  He  was  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  pool  wigwagging  fran- 
tically with  his  hands.  It  was  the 
unique  sign  language  he  had  estab- 
lished with  the  Diomedes  who  w’ere 
frolicking  in  the  pool. 

In  a moment  a couple  of  hundred 
of  them  came  tunmbling  up  out  of 
the  water  and  scrambled  to  the 
bank.  They  sat  in  orderly  rows  as 
if  understanding  some  directions 
McCord  was  giving  them. 

They  looked  like  nothing  more 
than  a flock  of  wet  teddy  bears. 
They  had  long,  prehensile  fingers 
and  toes  that  they  used  to  fashion 
the  Jewelworlds — and  make  lethal 
gadgets  out  of  eggbeaters. 

Then  something  shocked  our  at- 
tention and  froze  us  rigid  where  we 
stood. 

McCord  was  slowly  peeling  off 
his  shirt.  He  stood  a moment  in 
the  cold  and  we  could  imagine  him 
shivering  even  beneath  the  slabs  of 
alcoholic  fat  that  upholstered  him. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


Then  he  divested  himself  of  the 
rest  of  his  clothes  and  poised  a mo- 
ment on  the  bank.  His  body  formed 
an  arc  and  he  deliberately  plunged 
into  the  pool. 

“McCord's  taking  a bath !”  Some- 
body gasped.  Maybe  it  was  all  of 
us.  We  dropped  the  cases  of  pens 
that  were  in  our  hands  and  ran  for 
the  pool  until  the  light  air  made  our 
lungs  burn.  But  we  didn’t  stop. 

Maybe  McCord  was  committing 
suicide,  was  the  thought  that  most 
of  us  had,  I think.  And  without 
McCord  we  wouldn’t  get  half  the 
Jewel  worlds  we  expected  for  our 
cargo  of  pens. 

The  gathering  of  Diomedes  gave 
us  a dirty  look  as  we  came  running 
up  as  if  we  had  no  right  to  burst  in 
upon  their  god,  Hydrophobia  Mc- 
Cord, like  that. 

But  when  we  topped  the  rise  we 
saw  what  none  of  us  expected  to 
see.  McCord  was  lazily  floating  on 
his  back,  half  submerged.  He 
spewed  a column  of  water,  whale- 
like, into  the  air  and  waved. 

“Hi,  fellows.  I knew  I could  do 
it.  My  psychosis  is  all  gone  now, 
see?  I can  take  a bath  any  time  I 
want  to ! My  hydrophobia  won’t 
bother  you  no  more.” 

There  was  no  trading  that  day  or 
the  next,  because  as  soon  as  we  got 
McCord  to  come  out  of  the  pool 
and  get  dressed  he  took  one  back- 
ward look  and  collapsed  cold. 

I helped  catch  him  or,  rather,  to 
break  his  fall.  It  was  like  a ton  of 
beef  coming  down  on  me  and  it 
took  four  of  us  quite  a little  while 
to  carry  him  back  to  the  ship  and 
get  him  in  his  bunk. 


When  that  was  done  we  brought; 
the  cases  of  pens  back  inside. 

We  didn’t  carry  a ship’s  doctor 
because  we  were  too  small  a tub  for 
that,  but  I’d  done  a lot  of  first  aid 
and  was  unanimously  elected  to( 
take  charge  of  the  bellyaches  and 
the  drunks. 

What  I didn't  know  about  medi- 
cine would  supply  a dozen  special- 
ists with  a lifetime  of  knowledge, 
but  McCord's  condition  seemed  like 
a severe  case  of  shock  to  me.  After 
examining  him,  I called  Captain 
Wilkins. 

“There’s  something  intensely  not 
on  the  beam,”  I said.  “There's 
'Something  inside  McCord  that  none 
of  us  have  dreamed,  I think.” 

“That  stuff  he  drinks  will  pre- 
serve it  for  science  until  he  dies, 
anyway,”  said  Captain  Wilkins. 
“W’hat  I want  to  know  is  when  can 
he  get  out  and  trade  again?” 

“You  don’t  get  what  I mean,  Cap. 
In  his  head,  I mean.” 


UTILITY 


165 


“Is  there  anything  there?” 

“Plenty,  I think.  Just  before 
you  came  in  he  was  out  of  his  head 
and  he  yelled  Thorgersen’s  name  a 
half  dozen  times  and  then  he  said, 
'It’s  boiling  me,  Thorgersen,  it’s 
boiling  me.’  After  a while  he 
started  mumbling  threats  and  then 
said,  ‘I  did  it,  fellows.  For  eight 
!years  I’ve  been  trying  to  get  up 
courage  to  take  a bath  and  I’ve 
done  it.  He  can’t  hurt  me  no  more, 
and  I’ll  get  my  eight  years  back, 
too.” 

Captain  Wilkins  scowled. 
“Sounds  like  he’s  sore  at  Thorger- 
sen. Maybe  we  hadn’t  ought  to  let 
him  out  again.  He  might  try  to 
ruin  the  deal.  Say  . . . you  don’t 
suppose  it’s  McCord  that’s  been 
back  of  all  the  trouble  -we’ve  had 
here?” 

I shrugged.  “How  could  he  be? 
He  hasn’t  always  been  the  one  to 
suggest  the  trade  articles.  Fie  didn’t 
suggest  the  eggbeaters.  And  he 
couldn’t  control  the  psychology  of 
the  Diomedes.  Nope,  I think  this 
is,  something  concerning  McCord 
alone — McCord  and  maybe  Thor- 
gersen.” 

“Where  does  Thorgersen  come 
in,  I wonder?” 

“They  were  here  together  the 
first  time,  remember.” 

“McCord  was  nothing  but  a 
drunken  bum  long  before  that.  He 
probably  has  carried  some  sort  of 
a grudge  all  these  years  because 
Thorgersen  made  a success  instead 
of  going  along  with  a failure  like 
McCord.  But  what  I want  to  know 
is  where  this  bath  business  comes 
in.  No,  I don’t  either.  I want  to 

im 


know  if  it’s  going  to  be  safe  to  let 
him  out  when  he  comes  to,  and  can 
we  trust  him  to  deal  with  the  Dio- 
medes and  Arthoids  for  us?” 

I shrugged  again.  “It’s  either 
that  or  try  to  get  as  many  Jewel- 
worlds  as  we  can  by  ourselves.  In 
any  event  all  we  have  to  trade  is  the 
pens,” 

“I  guess  you're  right.”  Captain 
Wilkins  turned  to  go.  “Let  me 
know  when  he  comes  around.” 

McCord  didn’t  come  around  for 
two  days.  I thought  the  guy  was 
going  to  die.  I didn’t  know  enough 
or  have  the  equipment — though  I 
suppose  Dune  Edwards  could  have 
rigged  it  up — to  feed  him  intra- 
venously. I was  about  to  suggest 
Captain  Wilkins  try  to  raise  a liner 
somewhere  close  enough  to  get  to 
us  a doctor  when  McCord  finally 
roused. 

He  rose  from  the  bunk  with  a 
glassy  look  in  his  eyes.  The  skin 
hung  on  him  like  a loosely  draped 
rug  after  his  two  days’  fast.  He 
got  down  shakily  and  gripped  my 
shoulder. 

“The  pool,  Stevens,”  he  said. 
“Help  me  get  to  it.  I’ve  got  to 
take  a bath  again.  Got  to  take  a 
bath  right  now.” 

“Easy  does  it,  old  man,”  I said, 
trying  to  push  him  back  into  the 
bunk.  It  was  still  like  trying  to 
shove  a baby  elephant  around. 

“No.  Got  to  take  a bath,  Stevens. 
Help  me  get  to  the  pool.” 

I helped  him.  There  was  noth- 
ing else  I could  do.  Hap  Paulson 
and  a couple  of  machinists  came 
along,  too.  All  McCord  had  on 


•ASTOUNDING  SOrENCE-FICTION 


was  his  shorts.  He  had  even  re- 
fused to  don  a shirt,  and  his  great 
hulk  was  trembling  and  blue  with 
cold.  Hap  was  pleading  with  him. 

“It’ll  kill  you,  McCord.  You 
can’t  go  in  the  water  now !” 

“Got  to,  fellows,  or  I may  never 
be  able  to  do  it  again.  For  eight 
years  I’ve  been  trying  to  build  up 
the  courage.  Now  I’ve  got  it.  Ask 
Doc  here.”  He  nudged  me. 

“What  about  it?”  Hap  asked. 

My  feelings  in  the  matter  were 
based  on  no  medical  knowledge 
whatever,  but  I said,  “I  think  we 
ought  to  let  him  go.  I’ve  got  a 
hunch  it’s  going  to  do  him  more 
good  than  harm.  If  he  gets  pneu- 
monia, we  can  lick  that,  but  we 
can’t  lick  what’s  in  his  head.” 

Hap  gave  me  a queer  look  as  if 
he’d  put  me  and  McCord  in  the 
same  classification,  but  he  made  no 
further  protest. 

When  we  reached  the  top  of  the 
rise  by  the  pool,  McCord  stopped 
and  began  wagging  his  arms  about 
in  the  air  until  the  little  furry  Dio- 
medes  began  tumbling  over  each 
other  to  get  out  of  the  water.  Then 
McCord  tossed  off  his  shorts  and 
gave  the  rest  of  us  a shove  to  one 
side.  He  poised,  trembling,  looked 
into  the  water,  and  stopped — 

Fie  seemed  to  collapse  all  over 
like  a pricked  balloon.  We  couldn’t 
tell  whether  his  body  was  trembling 
with  cold  or  from  the  sudden  great 
sobs  that  broke  from  him  as  he 
began  to  go  back  down  the  rise. 

Hap  and  the  machinists  turned 
away.  They  couldn’t  stand  the 
sight  of  a man  so  broken  by  some 


inexplicable  fear.  But  I touched 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

“Maybe  if  I gave  you  a shove — ” 
I suggested. 

He  looked  up  at  me  with  his  tear- 
filled,  baby-blue  eyes  like  an  un- 
gainly St.  Bernard.  His  head 
. wagged  slowly.  “You  know , don’t 
you,  Stevens?” 

I didn’t,  but  I nodded  anyway. 

It  seemed  to  do  something  to 
McCord.  He  gathered  himself  into 
a knot  and  then  ran  back  up  the 
slope  with  all  his  might.  At  the  top 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  grasped  his 
nose  like  a kid  and  leaped. 

The  tremendous  splash  covered 
us  with  icy  water,  but  we  didn’t 
duck.  We  looked  to  see  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  McCord. 

For  a moment  it  looked  as  if  he 
were  drowning,  so  violently  did  he 
thrash  around.  His  face  came  up 
out  of  the  water  purplish  as  if  he 
were  struggling  for  air.  Yet  I 
knew  he  hadn’t  been  there  long 
enough  to  use  a half  lungful. 

It  wasn’t  lack  of  air.  It  was  in 
his  head. 

Abruptly  he  stopped  fighting  the 
water.  He  struck  out  with  a long, 
somewhat  awkward  stroke,  but  it 
was  a stroke  that  had  belonged  to  a 
once-experienced  . swimmer.  He 
went  around  the  pool  once,  then 
stopped  in  front  of  us,  treading 
water. 

“It’s  gone  for  good  this  time, 
fellows.  My  hydrophobia’s  gone 
for  good.” 

When  I saw  Captain  Wilkins 
next  morning  he  was  in  a blue  fury. 
I heard  him  raging  up  and  down 


DTILITY 


167 


the  bridge  and  before  I even  came 
in  I could  hear  McCord's  name 
mentioned  vigorously  several  times. 
“What’s  wrong?”  I asked. 

The  captain  stopped  long  enough 
to  eye  me  up  and  down  as  if  I were 
an  imbecile.  “Wrong!” 

Then  his  eyes  settled  on  me 
steadily  and  a beatific  expression 
came  over  him.  “Stevens — it  seems 
to  me  that  McCord  has  taken  a 
strange  liking  to  you.  He  told  me 


last  night  that  you  were  the  only 
one  around  here  that  understood 
him.  Maybe  you  can  talk  to  him 
and  straighten  him  out.” 

The  captain’s  voice  was  sugary 
and  I knew  it  meant  I’d  better  get 
some  results  or  it  would  be  my  neck 
in  the  stocks  next. 

“What’s  he  done?”  I asked. 

“It’s  what  he’s  going  to  do.  He 
insists  on  taking  this  cargo  of  pens 
that  I’ve  lugged  across  seventy 


108 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


light-years  of  space  and  trading 
them  to  the  Arthoids  for  their  in- 
ferior grade  of  Jewelworlds  that 
give  enough  distortion  to  make  a 
man  think  he's  drunk  every  time  he 
looks  into  one.” 

“Why  not  the  Diomedes  first?” 

“That's  what  you're  going  to  find 
out.” 

McCord  was  in  the  bathtub  when 
I went  in.  He  had  taken  six  baths 
during  the  night  and  had  had  three 
more  before  breakfast. 

“What’s  the  dope  on  our  new 
trading  angle?”  I asked. 

He  dunked  completely  under  the 
water  and  bubbled  up  again  like  a 
kid.  “Just  a new  wrinkle.  Going 
to  make  the  Diomedes  jealous  and 
give  us  a better  deal.  I found  out 
they  could  produce  twice  as  many 
Jewelworlds  as  they  do  if  they 
weren’t  so  darn  lazy.” 

It  sounded  a bit  fishy.  I didn’t 
think  the  Diomedes  had  any  capac- 
ity for  an  emotion  like  jealousy. 

“You  don’t  mean  to  trade  all  our 
pens  with  the  Arthoids,  do  you?” 

“No,  just  eight  or  ten  cases  of 
them  ought  to  be  enough.” 

“But  that  won't  leave  enough  to 
make  a decent  trade  with  the  Dio- 
medes !" 

“Sure  it  will.  You’ll  see.” 

“I  don’t  know'  wdiether  I will  or 
not.  Captain  Wilkins  is  about  ready 
to  go  out  and  try  to  make  a deal 
himself.” 

That  got  McCord.  He  went  pale 
all  over.  He  stood  up  and  began 
to  dry  himself.  He  was  shaking 
again  though  the  room  was  warm. 

“He  can’t  do  that ! Stevens, 


you’ve  got  to  help  me.  Say  you'll 
do  it.” 

“Do  what?  I'd  like  to  know 
what  the  score  is.” 

"It’s  awfully  important  to  me,” 
pleaded  McCord,  “and  it’s  nothing 
that  will  hurt  the  traders,  but  we’ve 
got  to  work  with  the  Arthoids  first. 
Maybe  five  cases  of  pens  will  be 
enough  to  make  the  Diomedes  jeal- 
ous. Persuade  the  captain  for  me, 
will  you  ?’ 

I had  that  hunch  again  that  some- 
thing tremendous— for  McCord — 
was  going  on  inside  his  skull.  But 
I was  a little  dubious  about  his  in- 
explicable desire  to  trade  with  the 
Arthoids  first.  That  jealousy  angle 
was  phony  as  a glass  eye. 

“I’ll  do  it,”  I said  for  no  reason 
that  I could  fathom.  It  was  a 
hunch  and  I prayed  it  wouldn’t  be  a 
bad  one. 

I went  back  to  the  captain  and 
explained  the  jealousy  angle. 

He  looked  at  me  out  of  one  eye. 
“You  don’t  believe  that  gag,  do 
you?” 

“Why  not?”  I said  innocently. 
“Figure  it  out  for  yourself.  These 
little  gadget  maniacs  are  craftsmen. 
When  they  see  w;e're  trading  with 
their  rivals  first,  they’ll  know  some- 
thing’s wrong  with  the  deal  they’ve 
been  giving  us.  Always  tve  go  to 
the  Arthoids  second  and  fill  up 
with  the  second-rate  stuff  after 
we’ve  got  all  the  first  grade  we  can 
get.  We  know  about  how  much  we 
can  expect  from  the  Diomedes  so 
we  reverse  the  procedure  and  get  a 
better  deal  next  time  we  come 
around.” 

“You’re  either  a blockhead  or  a 


UTILITY 


169 


liar,”  said  Captain  Wilkins.  ‘‘But 
if  he  only  wants  to  trade  five  cases 
of  pens  to  the  Arthoids  we’ll  humor 
him.  I’m  going  to  see  Thorgersen 
about  this  when  we  get  back, 
though.” 

So  we  traded  with  the  Arthoids 
first.  McCord  led  the  trading  pro- 
cession next  day  and  five  of  us  fol- 
lowed his  regal  obesity  across  the 
plain,  past  the  pool  where  the  Dio- 
medes  stopped  to  stare  at  us  as  it 
they  eoudn’t  believe  their  eyes. 
They  knew  what  was  going  on,  but 
McCord  didn't  give  them  a second 
glance. 

We  paraded  on  over  to  the  mesa 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley, 
where  the  Arthoids  were  poking 
around  in  their  caves.  Their  pow- 
erful, roselike  odor  filled  the  air. 
The  five  of  us  stopped  while  Mc- 
Cord went  ahead  to  palaver  with 
his  arm  waving.  None  of  us  knew 
where  he  had  picked  it  up.  He 
wouldn’t  teach  it  to  anyone  else  and 
any  other  traders  had  to  get  along 
as  best  they  could,  which  wasn’t 
very  good.  I once  tried  waving  my 
hands  around  in  front  of  a Diomede 
for  a couple  of  hours  and  the  only 
response  I got  was  his  turning  over 
and  going  to  sleep. 

But  it  seemed  as  if  McCord  was 
having  instant  and  overwhelming 
success.  The  Arthoids  came  tum- 
bling out  of  their  caves,  apparently 
flattered  by  our  coming  to  them 
first.  Each  one  was  juggling  an 
armful  of  their  second-rate  Jewel- 
worlds. 

We  watched  McCord  pick  up  one 
and  look  at  it.  He  set  it  down  and 
haggled  some  more.  Finally,  he 

170 


called  us  over  and  we  began  dealing 
out  the  pens  in  exchange  for  the 
Jewel  worlds. 

I got  that  queer  feeling  in  the  pit 
of  my  stomach  again  about  those 
pens  as  I saw  the  way  the  little  crea- 
tures grabbed  them  so  excitedly, 
made  sure  they  could  operate  them 
and  then  dashed  up  to  their  holes  in 
the  cliffs  again.  There  was  some- 
thing distinctly  not  right,  but  it  was 
only  a hunch  again  and  I decided  to 
stay  shut  up. 

It  took  us  quite  a number  of  trips 
to  bring  back  all  the  Jewelworlds 
we  got  for  five  cases  of  pens.  The 
Arthoids  refused  to  help.  They 
said  the  Diomedes  still  had  one 
bank  of  eggbeaters  with  a little 
power  left  and  were  waiting  to 
catch  some  Arthoids  at  close  range. 

By  the  time  the  deal  was  over  and 
we  had  trundled  the  loot  back  to 
the  ship  the  day  was  pretty  well 
gone.  The  days  are  several  hours 
shorter  than  on  Earth,  anyway. 
We  decided  to  wait  until  tomorrow 
before  approaching  the  Diomedes. 

McCord  took  some  more  baths. 
Nobody  else  could  get  in  the  tub 
because  he  was  always  there,  I be- 
gan to  think  he’d  grow  gills. 

And  the  way  he  drank  water — 

I saw  him  drink  three  quarts  in  a 
row  at  least  twice  in  that  one  day, 
and  he  had  several  pints  in  between 
as  a sort  of  chaser.  Once,  some- 
body offered  him  a glass  of  beer  and 
I thought  he  was  going  to  lay  the 
man  out. 

Along  about  suppertime,  which 
was  after  dark,  the  commotion 
started. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


It  started  as  if  the  Cassiopeia 
were  suddenly  being  pounded  with 
a hail  of  shrapnel  and  a sort  of  un- 
earthly squealing  and  yelling  filled 
the  air. 

We  raced  to  the  ports  and  looked 
out  after  turning  on  the  outside 
lights.  There  must  have  been  about 
four  or  five  thousand  Diomedes  out 
there  throwing  stones  at  the  ship 
and  making  those  little  squealing 
noises. 

“McCord !”  Captain  Wilkins 
thundered.  “See  what’s  wrong  out 
there !” 

McCord  obediently  got  out  of  the 
bathtub  and  hastily  donned  a robe. 
He  went  out  through  the  hatch  and 
raised  his  arms  above  his  head.  The 
clamor  stopped  instantly  but  the  lit- 
tle Diomedes  crouched  and  cowered 
as  if  in  intense  pain.  There  was  a 
lot  of  arm  waving  then  between 
McCord  and  the  furry  creatures, 
then  McCord  slowly  came  up  the 
companionway. 

“Well—?”  Captain  Wilkins 
looked  as  if  he  were  ready  to  throw 
McCord  bodily  down  the  stairs 
again. 

“I  guess  we  muffed  it,  captain. 
The  Arthoids  seem  to  be  getting 
even  for  that  eggbeater  deal.” 

Captain  Wilkins  went  white  un- 
der his  space  tan.  So  di-d  every 
other  member  of  the  crew  present. 

“You  mean  they’ve  made  a 
weapon  out  of  those  pens?’’ 

McCord  nodded. 

I looked  at  him  suspiciously.  The 
whole  business  smelled  as  high  as 
McCord  used  to,  but  there  was 
nothing  I could  put  a finger  on. 
Who  could  have  suspected  that  the 

UTILITY 


Arthoids  could  do  anything  with  a 
harmless  object  like  a pen? 

Nobody  but  me,  and  it  was  only 
a hunch. 

“What  have  they  done?”  Captain 
Wilkins  asked. 

“It  seems  that  the  Diomedes  have 
a system  of  communication  that  we 
have  never  suspected.  They  are  like 
bats.  They  generate  supersonic 
waves,  and  by  means  of  very  deli- 
cate organs  they  can  detect  those 
waves.  The  Arthoids  knew  that 
and  that’s  why  they  were  so  glad  to 
have  the  supersonic  pens.  They’ve 
hooked  them  all  in  phase  and  turned 
them  on  full  power.  They  are 
slowly  torturing  the  Diomedes  to 
death  through  their  sensitive  hear- 
ing organs.  They’ll  all  be  dead  by 
morning  unless  we  help  them.” 

Captain  Wilkins  let  out  a groan 
that  was  echoed  by  all  the  rest  of 
us.  We  visioned  our  trading  ca- 
reers blighted  for  the  rest  of  our 
lives.  The  Council  wouldn’t  allow 
any  company  to  hire  us  after  this 
boner. 

“There’s  something  else,  too,” 
said  McCord. 

“You  couldn’t  possibly  make  it 
worse,”  said  Captain  Wilkins. 


1T1 


“I’m  afraid  so.  I learned  some- 
thing else.  The  Jewelworlds  have 
a property  we  didn’t  know  anything 
about.  Ordinarily,  the  Dioniedes 
live  several  hundreds  of  our  years, 
but  when  one  of  them  dies  all  the 
Jewelworlds  it  has  made  cease  func- 
tioning no  matter  where  they  are. 
That  means  that  all  the  Jewelworlds 
we  have  ever  brought  back  will  be 
practically  worthless.” 

Captain  Wilkins  was  too  stupe- 
fied by  this  news  to  groan  any  more. 
He  merely  sat  down  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

Dune  Edwards  looked  out  the 
port  towards  the  far  stars.  “We 
could  head  out  away  from  the  Solar 
System  as  far  as  our  fuel  would 
take  us,”  he  suggested. 

Captain  Wilkins  glared  at  him, 
but  he  was  deadly  serious. 

And  then  McCord  spoke  again. 
“I  have  a suggestion.” 

Captain  Wilkins’  glare  turned  on 
him  was  permission  to  speak. 

“The  only  solution  is  for  us  to 
exterminate  the  Arthoids,”  said 
McCord. 

“How  would  you  do  that,  even 
if  it  weren't  stupid  to  even  think  of 
such  a thing  ?” 

“I  have  a method,”  said  McCord 
quietly. 

Every  eye  turned  upon  him.  A 
cold  wave  swept  over  us  and  we  all 
seemed  to  get  the  same  idea  at  the 
same  time.  That  gadget  McCord 
had  been  working  on  during  the  trip 
— his  insistence  on  trading  with  the 
Arthoids  first. 

“Why,  you — ” I spluttered. 

“You  planned  this !”  Captain 
Wilkins  thundered. 

172 


“Captain!”  McCord’s  voice  was 
full  of  hurt  and  he  averted  his  eyes. 

I don’t  quite  know  yet  what  saved 
McCord  from  being  slaughtered 
right  there  in  the  ship  in  the  next 
fifteen  minutes.  Captain  Wilkins 
swore,  the  men  of  the  crew  tried  to 
grab  McCord  but  he  beat  them  off 
with  a heavy  metal  chair  and  when 
our  rage  had  exhausted  us,  he  said 
quietly,  "I  suggest  you  call  Timothy 
Thorgersen  and  get  permission  to 
exterminate  the  Arthoids.  It  can 
be  done  in  such  a way  that  it  will 
appear  that  the  Diomedes  have  done 
it  without  any  help  from  us.” 

All  this  time  the  clamor  outside 
had  been  going  on  again.  The  Dio- 
medes peppered  the  ship  with  rocks 
and  kept  up  their  high-pitched 
squealing  that  we  didn’t  even  know 
they  could  make  before,  pleading 
for  our  help. 

“It’s  the  only  way,”  said 
McCord. 

Slowly,  Captain  Wilkins  turned 
around  to  the  communication  panel 
and  put  in  a call  for  Timothy  Thor- 
gersen. Every  man  in  the  room 
knew  that  it  was  the  end  of  his 
trading  career  and  there  was  mur- 
der in  their  eyes  as  they  glowered 
at  McCord. 

It  took  a while  to  get  Thorgersen 
on  the  beam.  He  was  out  partying 
somewhere  as  usual  and  his  face 
was  flushed  and  angry  as  he  came 
in  view.  “What  is  the  meaning  of 
this  interruption,  captain  ?”  he 
snapped. 

Briefly,  Captain  Wilkins  ex- 
plained the  situation  and  the  solu- 
tion as  given  by  McCord. 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


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On  the  color  screen  we  could  see 
the  blood  rush  to  Thorgersen’s  head 
and  the  little  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelled  and  pulsed.  “McCord  1” 
he  spat.  “Put  him  on!” 

Captain  Wilkins  beckoned  to 
McCord  who  seemed  as  calm  as  a 
spring  morning  as  he  walked  be- 
tween the  threatening  crew  mem- 
bers towards  the  thunderous  image 
of  Thorgersen. 

"Yes?”  said  McCord. 

“McCord,  what’s  the  meaning  of 
this  ? Isn’t  there  some  way  out  be- 
sides what  Wilkins  says  you  sug- 
gest ?” 

“None  at  all,  Mr.  Thorgersen. 
There  is  something  else  you  should 
know',  too:  I took  a bath.” 

Thorgersen  seemed  to  go  pale  on 
the  screen,  but  he  blustered,  “Your 
personal  pathologies  are  nothing  to 
me.” 

“You  know  what  I mean,”  said 
McCord  evenly  and  there  was  a 
tone  in  his  voice  that  we  had  never 
heard  before.  “I  took  a bath.” 

“I  want  to  know  what  this  is  all 
about !” 

“I’ll  take  care  of  this  situation  on 
Merans  so  that  you  will  never  have 
to  worry  about  your  supply  of 
Jewelworlds  again.  You  will  be 
able  to  get  all  you  want.” 

“Go  ahead,”  said  Thorgersen. 
“Slaughter  the  whole  bunch  of 
Arthoids  if  necessary  as  long  as 
Barter,  Inc.  is  not  connected  with 
it.” 

“There  are  certain  concessions 
that  I want,”  said  McCord,  “before 
I save  your  precious  Diomedes.  I 
want  my  share  of  the  profits  from 
the  Jewelworlds  which  you  have 

174 


robbed  me  of  during  the  last  eight 
years.  I want  a return  of  my  share 
in  the  trading  company  we  formed. 
In  exchange  for  this  I’ll  save  your 
main  asset  of  Barter,  Inc.  and  for- 
get that  you  tried  to  murder  me.” 

Thorgersen  sputtered  with  incipi- 
ent apoplexy,  but  before  he  could 
speak,  McCord  went  on  again.  “All 
the  agreements  I want  you  to  sign 
are  in  the  hands  of  my  lawyers 
along  with  the  murder  charge  that 
will  be  released  if  you  fail  to  com- 
ply. There  are  about  five  hundred 
witnesses  to  your  attempted  murder 
and  they  are  all  living.” 

“You’re  crazy ! You  can’t 
threaten — ” 

“I  can  and  am.  The  Diomedes 
are  intelligent  creatures,  and  now 
that  I can  speak  vocally  with  them 
their  testimony  will  be  admitted  in 
any  court.  I’ll  keep  the  Arthoids 
from  killing  the  five  hundred  I need 
until  they  can  testify  against  you. 
Better  call  iny  lawyers  and  make  up 
your  mind  fast.  I’ll  give  you  a 
half  hour.” 

McCord  gave  the  name  of  his  law 
firm  and  clicked  off. 

The  rest  of  us  stared  open- 
mouthed  at  McCord,  the  changed 
McCord.  He  had  browbeat  the  one 
man  we  all  feared  because  of  the 
arbitrary  control  he  exercised  over 
us. 

But  now  McCord  seemed  to  sag 
as  if  some  great  energy  had  gone 
out  of  him  and  he  sank  down  on  a 
chair. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do  ?” 
asked  Captain  Wilkins.  “You  can’t 
blackmail  Thorgersen.  That’s  sui- 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


cide  to  try  to  pull  a stunt  like  that 
on  him.” 

“It’s  not  blackmail,”  said  Mc- 
Cord in  a tired  voice.  “It’s  merely 
an  attempt  at  justice.  When  Thor- 
gersen  and  I landed  on  this  planet 
eight  years  ago  we  had  a joint  in- 
terest in  the  trading  company  that 
we  had  formed. 

“Sure,  I had  a reputation  then  of 
being  a drunken  bum  and  not  car- 
ing about  anything.  I admit  it  I 
was  young  and  didn’t  have  a brain 
in  my  head,  I guess.  Thorgersen 
was  older  and  more  settled.  He 
took  this  trading  business  seriously 
and  I was  in  for  the  fun  of  it.  He 
was  determined  to  roll  the  thing 
into  a big  corporation  with  great 
fleets  of  trading  ships  like  he  finally 
got.  But  that  seemed  too  much  like 
business  red  tape  to  me.  I would 


have  been  content  with  a half  dozen 
ships  and  a bottle  of  good  whiskey 
on  Saturday  nights.  Thorgersen 
saw  me  as  just  an  anchor  to  him. 

“Then  I found  the  Jewelworlds 
here  on  Merans  and  saw  their  possi- 
bilities. I knew  they’d  be  worth  a 
fortune  if  we  exploited  them  right. 
Thorgersen  admitted  I had  a good 
idea,  so  good  that  he  tried  to  mur- 
der me  in  order  that  he  wouldn’t 
have  to  share  the  profits  with  me, 
“I  celebrated  the  discovery  of  the 
Jewelworlds  with  an  extra  quart 
and  while  I was  half  cockeyed 
Thorgersen  tapped  me  on  the  head 
and  threw  me  in  the  pool  out  there 
where  the  Diomedes  swim.  That’s 
what  gave  me  my  psychosis.” 

Dune  Edwards  snorted.  “You 
aren’t  going  to  try  to  tell  us  that  you 
actually  had  a hydrophobia  that 


Produced  By  The  Maker  Of  The  Famous  Gillette  Blue  Blade 


UTILITY 


175 


kept  you  away  from  water!” 

“I’m  telling  you,”  said  McCord 
evenly.  “The  Diomedes  fished  me 
out  and  brought  me  around.  That 
was  when  I worked  out  a sign  lan- 
guage with  them  and  they  became 
so  friendly  because  I showed  them 
how  my  pocket  visor  worked.  The 
little  devils  took  it  apart  and  made  a 
death  ray  out  of  it  that  they  turned 
on  the  Arthoids  until  the  power  ran 
out.  I later  gave  one  to  the  Arth- 
oids to  get  in  solid  with  them. 

“Thorgersen  kept  trying  to  hang 
around  and  get  a load  of  Jewel- 
worlds,  but  I told  the  Diomedes  not 
to  give  him  any.  When  I finally 
confronted  him,  he  thought  he  was 
seeing  a ghost,  but  when  he  found 
out  about  my  psychosis  he  thought 
I was  crazy  and  that  it  would  be 
safe  enough  to  take  me  back,  which 
I bargained  for  by  getting  some  of 
the  Jewelworlds  for  him. 

“For  eight  years  I’ve  been  trying 
to  get  up  courage  to  go  back  into 
that  pool  where  he  tried  to  drown 
me.  I knew  it  was  the  only  thing 
that  would  cure  me,  and  that  if  I 
didn’t  make  it  this  trip  I never 
would.  So  I made  arrangements 
before  we  left  to  bargain  with 
Thorgersen  for  what  he  stole  from 
me-.” 

Captain  Wilkins  was  about  to 
...  break  in  when  the  gong  sounded 
and  Thorgersen  was  back.  His 
apoplectic  face  was  pale  now  and 
his  jowls  sagged.  “I've  signed,” 
he  said.  “You  see  that  you  take 
care  of  your  end.  Come  in  and  see 
me  when  you  get  back.” 

He  cut  off  without  giving  Mc- 
Cord a chance  tp  speak.  McCord 

176 


checked  with  his  lawyers  and  found 
that  Thorgersen  had  kicked 
through.  He  had  complied  in  every 
detail. 

McCord  rose  then  and  gathered 
into  himself  some  of  the  new  en- 
ergy he  seemed  to  possess. 

"Damned  clever,”  Captain  Wil- 
kins muttered.  “I’ve  never  seen  a 
deal  put  over  like  that  before.” 

“You  think  I’m  lying?”  McCord 
said. 

“Sure.  I don’t  care  how  drunk 
you  were  or  how  hard  you  were  hit. 
Merely  being  thrown  in  a pool 
wouldn’t  give  you  a psychosis  for 
the  rest  of  your  life  that  would 
make  you  afraid  to  drink  a glass  of 
water.” 

“There  were  five  hundred  Dio- 
medes swimming  in  the  pool  at  the 
time,”  said  McCord  patiently. 
“They  were  responsible  for  it  indi- 
rectly.” 

“What’s  that  got  to  do  with  it?” 

“Have  you  ever  seen  the  demon- 
stration where  supersonic  waves  are 
set  up  in  an  oil  bath  by  a crystal 
vibrating  at  such  frequencies  being 
immersed  in  the  bath?” 

“I’ve  heard  of  such.” 

“You  stick  your  finger  in  the  oil 
and  it  will  nearly  burn  it  off.  Re- 
member ?” 

“Sure,  but — ” 

“There  were  five  hundred  Dio- 
medes in  that  pool,  some  under  the 
surface,  some  swimming  on  top. 
They  were  chattering  and  gossiping 
their  heads  off — at  supersonic  fre- 
quencies. It  was  like  being  thrown 
in  a vat  of  boiling  oil.  The  hun- 
dreds of  frequencies  beat  together 
and  produced  waves  that  hammered 

ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


and  tore  at  me  and  others  that 
burned.  It  didn’t  bother  the  Dio- 
medes,  of  course.  They’re  built  for 
it.  But  I thought  I was  being 
boiled  alive. 

"The  Diomedes  fished  me  out  of 
there,  but  from  then  on  every  time 
I saw  so  much  as  a glass  of  water  I 
felt  that  burning  and  tearing  energy 
again.  I couldn’t  help  it.  It  would 
drive  me  crazy  to  hear  water  drip- 
ping from  a tap  even.  I could  only 
drink  something  I knew  was  not 
water,  and  whiskey  nearly  finished 
the  job  it  had  begun. 

“I  knew  I had  to  get  back  into 
that  pool  without  the  Diomedes  in 
it.  Nothing  else  would  cure  me, 
but  it  took  eight  years  to  get  cour- 
age enough  to  do  it.” 

No  one  spoke  when  McCord  was 
through.  No  one  had  a moment’s 
doubt  now  of  the  truth  of  his  story. 
He  spoke  simply  and  with  the  in- 
gratiating honesty  that  he  had 
always  tried  to  project  through  his 
drunkenness  though  the  knowledge 
of  what  others  thought  of  him  must 
have  been  torture. 

He  went  out  of  the  room  and 
after  a moment  we  followed  silently 
behind  him. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  hatch  and 
we  all  caught  the  overpowering 
smell  of  the  ologenerator  going  full 
blast  again.  We  wondered  why  in 
the  world  he  had  that  thing  on 
again. 

But  there  was  an  obvious  change 
in  the  Diomedes  now.  They  rose 
from  their  cowering  attitude  and 
flocked  around  him  worshipfully. 

We  saw  the  little  gadget  in  his 
hand  which  he  had  built  during  the 


trip  out.  It  was  connected  \vith  a 
little  microphone  at  his  lips. 
knew  now  what  it  was : A device 
for  speaking  and  listening  to  the 
supersonic  voice  frequencies  of  the 
Diomedes.  The  creatures  were 
quiet,  listening  to  him  and  when 
he  finished  they  trooped  past  him 
in  single  file  and  he  handed  out 
several  dozen  ologenerators  which 
we  didn’t  even  know  he  had.  When 
they  were  all  gone  he  left  us  and 
crossed  the  dark  plain  to  the  holes 
of  the  Arthoids  in  the  cliffs  oppo- 
site. An  hour  later  he  was  back. 

“What’s  the  score?”  asked  Cap- 
tain Wilkins  finally. 

“There’s  a truce,”  said  McCord. 
“It’s  an  armed  truce,  but  I don’t 
think  it  will  ever  be  broken.  The 
Arthoids  have  got  the  supersonic 
pens  to  annoy  the  Diomedes’  hear- 
ing organs,  and  the  Diomedes  have 
got  the  ologenerators.” 

“What  good  are  they?”  asked 
Dune. 

“Haven’t  you  ever  noticed  the 
smell  around  the  Arthoids’  caves  ? 
Like  roses  and  orchids?  The 
Arthoids  communicate  too — by 
means  of  a sense  of  smell,  using 
their  olfactory  organs.  The  oto- 
generators  will  raise  the  merry  devil 
with  them  if  the  Diomedes  turn 
them  on.  But  each  side  knows  bet- 
ter now  than  to  turn  on  its  weapons. 
If  it  does,  retaliation  will  be  quick. 
I had  to  go  over  and  make  the 
Arthoids  understand  that.  They’re 
sore,  but  very  agreeable.” 

“Won’t  these,  things  kill  the  crea- 
tures?” leaked. 

“(^■'course  not'  The  Diomedes 
and  Aniforui«-*4je my  friends!” 


UTILITY 


177 


McCord  turned  his  wide,  blue  eyes 
on  me  in  that  hurt  expression  again. 
“The  pens  and  the  ologenerators 
are  annoying  as  the  devil  to  them, 
but  they  won’t  harm  them.’’ 

“How  could  you  talk  to  the  Dio- 
medes  even  if  you  could  use  super- 
sonics?  You  hadn’t  learned  their 
vocal  language,”  I said. 

McCord  shook  his  head.  “I 
wasn’t  sure  I could,  and  don’t  ask 
me  how.  Their  heads  are  like  Jewel- 
worlds.  Any  language  creates  the 
pictures  it  was  meant  to  convey 
and  their  words  do  the  same  to  me. 
No  abstractions,  of  course,  but  we 
managed.” 

We  felt  better  now.  All  but  Cap- 
tain Wilkins.  He  sat  in  his  chair 
as  morose  as  ever.  I asked  what 
the  trouble  was. 

He  looked  up.  “Do  you  think 
Thorgersen  is  going  to  take  this 
lying  down?  He  may  be  a crook 
and  a murderer  and  McCord  may 
be  safe  enough  from  him,  but  look 
what  he’ll  do  to  us!  He’ll  take  it 


all  out  on  us  as  soon  as  we  get 
back.  I think  we  might  as  well 
resign  and  find  a new  trade  right 
now.” 

McCord  brightened.  “Oh,  you 
don’t  need  to  worry  about  that, 
Captain.  Didn’t  I tell  you?  The 
transfer  of  the  ownership  of  the 
Cassiopeia  was  one  item  of  my  con- 
ditions that  Thorgersen  signed. 
You  fellows  all  work  for  me  now.” 

He  looked  around  hopefully  at 
the  ring  of  men.  “L  hope  you  don’t 
mind,  fellows,”  he  said. 

Wide  grins  gave  him  his  answer. 
Anybody  that  could  come  out  on 
top  of  a deal  with  Thorgersen  was 
a good  man. 

“I  think  we  should  celebrate 
now,”  McCord  said.  He  leaned 
towards  an  audio  panel  on  the  wall 
and  called  the  galley.  “Send  up  a 
couple  of  dozen  quarts  right  away !” 

There  was  a moment’s  pause  as 
he  listened,  then  he  exploded  in 
indignation. 

“No!”  he  roared.  “Water!” 


THE  END. 


CROSSBOW  COMEBACK 

Weapon  technology  has  slightly  outstepped  the  crossbow  era — hut  ye  goode  olde 
crossbow  is  back  in  technology.  Westinghouse  researchers  found  it  the  perfect 
answer  to  a tricky  little  problem.  Quartz  fibers  have  enormouAy  high  mechanical 
strength  for  their  weight,  and,  unlike  metallic  fibers,  return  perfectly  to  their  original 
dimensions  when  released  from  a distorting  force.  They  make  ideal  suspension 
fibers  for  extremely  sensitive  precision  instruments.  They  are  also  apt  to  get  broken ; 
the  same  delicacy  that  makes  them  so  desired  also  makes  them  fragile.  And  it  is 
very  difficult  to  make  fibers  of  uniform — not  lumpy — cross  section.  The  standard 
method  being  to  heat  the  middle  of  a quartz  rod  in  an  oxy-hydrogen  blowtorch,  and 
then  yank  the  ends  apart,  drawing  the  heated  section  into  a fine  fiber — you  hope. 

Comes  the  ancient  crossbow  system.  The  end  of  the  rod  is  fixed  in  the  bow  as  a 
projectile,  the  opposite  end  in  a clamp,  and  the  center  section  heated.  At  the 
appropriate  moment,  the  crossbow  trigger  is  tripped — and  about  thirty  feet  of  ex- 
tremely fine  fiber  is  'pun  put  in  such  a large  hurry  that  the  operation  is  completed 
before  appreciable  r 'oling  K'f  the  incandescent  quartz  has  taken  place.  The  fiber  is 
very  fine  indeed,  elite  uniform, “aipd  unbroken  strands  up  to  twenty  feet  long  have 
been  obtained.  i 


178 


ASTOUNDING  SCIENCE-FICTION 


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CALVERT  SALUTES  A CLEAR-HEADED  AMERICAN 


The  War  Bond  Buyer 


Mis  is  the  dream  of  Peace 

and  a Future  firmly  built 

To  stand  unshaken  in  a nation 
free  and  strong. 

And  his  the  gladly  given  dollars, 
his  the  Bonds 

To  win,  and  hold,  and  shape  that 
bright  Tomorrowl 


Come  bohjjenr^t  . tanks . . . and  guns . . . 

Come  the  vevymeans  oYJife  and  sustenance 

For  those  who  face  I'ffefhejffy  on  - 
distant  shores. 

He  buys  until  the  limit  of  his  purse  — 
and  more! 

Because  lie  knows  that  out  of  Bonds  — 
comes  Viciory! 


He  knows  that  out  of  Bonds 


He  is  a Clear-Headed  American! 


v __ 

Calvert  Distil}/*  Corpar.Trluil  publishes  this  message 
in  the  interest  of  the  home  front  war  effort